


The Fall of the Order

by Luaithe



Series: Tale of a Templar [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood Mages, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Lyrium, Lyrium Addiction, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Mage Rebellion, Mage-Templar War, Mages and Templars, POV Cullen Rutherford, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Purple Hawke, Qunari, Rite of Tranquility, Sided with Templars, Tranquil Mages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-03-14 15:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 227,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13592919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luaithe/pseuds/Luaithe
Summary: Kirkwall. City of Chains. And the Gallows - stronghold of Templar might in the Free Marches - welcomes every new arrival from the Waking Sea. It is 9:30 Dragon. Seven years before tragedy strikes first Kirkwall, and then Thedas. Cullen Rutherford of the Templar Order arrives at the forbidding stronghold a changed man. The horrors he suffered in Kinloch Hold have reformed him into a man utterly convinced of the dangers of magic and wholly committed to protecting people from it, whatever the sacrifice. Knight-Commander Meredith sees a kindred soul, and the broken templar becomes Knight-Captain, second-in-command of one of the strictest Circles in Thedas.The Templar Order is as secretive as it is proud. Behind the Champion's tale, the Templar Order had its own part to play out. How do events in Kirkwall lead to the fall of the Templar Order?--A behind-the-scenes fiction of DAII featuring the Templar Order from the perspective of Knight-Captain Cullen--





	1. From Across the Waking Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I find the Templar Order really interesting and have some sympathy for the templar perspective. I thought it would be interesting to give a fiction from their perspective a try as it's not something you see so often. This will try and stay as close to canon as is possible, using the limited interactions we have with the Order in general and Cullen in particular. Throughout, I've tried to fill in gaps and smooth over inconsistencies.
> 
> First few chapters take place before the start of the main DAII acts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's plenty of pro-mage fiction out there. I wanted to see something from a templar perspective, so here is my attempt at that. They're not the good guys in this story, but no one was a good guy DAII. That's what makes it interesting for me.
> 
> This fiction is going to be as close to the in-game events and timeline as I can make it. I might take some liberties to make events fit together properly or be slightly more believable (assuming Varric exaggerates a lot, so my Hawke isn't going to be killing abominations and templars by the hundred). There is of course a whole lot of guesswork and outright inventing events and conversations. I'll be starting with the arrival in Kirkwall and plan on working all the way up to just before the start of DA:Inquisition. There will be a whole lot of time jumps to match that ten-year timeframe.
> 
> This is my own interpretation and evolution of Cullen, based on the limited interactions we have with him. The worse elements of the templar order are therefore only hinted at, with the interpretation that Cullen was never actually evil, he just feared magic and was pragmatic to the point of being morally ambiguous.
> 
> This first chapter is Samson's POV. The rest are otherwise planned for Cullen's POV.

"Mages have made their suffering known, but templars never have." - Cassandra Pentaghast

**Kirkwall Arrival: Harvestmere 9:30 Dragon**

Knight-Templar Samson eased himself up from his comfortable seat in the shade of the Gallows docks as the Fereldan trade-ship slid into place at the jetty. He was hardly looking forward to his newly assigned duty. “Knight-Corporal Cullen is being transferred from Kinloch Hold in Fereldan to join the Kirkwall order,” Knight-Commander Meredith had said, “You will share quarters with him whilst he settles into his duties in the Gallows.” As far as he was concerned, it sounded like Meredith was punishing him with babysitting duty. Some influential Ferelden lord had managed to get his youngest son a shiny new posting away from the Darkspawn in the warm sunshine of the Free Marches. He could barely supress a chuckle at that thought. The Gallows was a long way from an easy posting under Meredith’s command.

A scramble of activity on the jetty marked the lowering of the gangplank. A cluster of yet more harried-looking refugees, clad in worn clothing and with their meagre possessions clutched in their hands, made their way eagerly down onto the jetty. As the Darkspawn spread inexorably northwards, more and more desperate hopefuls were driven to try and find a new life in Kirkwall. Samson shuddered slightly at the thought. Rumour had it that all of Fereldan’s Grey Wardens had been lost a few months back in a battle at some fortress down in south Fereldan. A decimated army, no Wardens, and no King. They could only pray that it wasn’t a true Blight.

“I hope Darkspawn don’t know how to swim”, he muttered to himself.

Finally, his new charge made an appearance, maroon Fereldan templar robes bright in the warm afternoon sunshine. The young templar looked near dead on his feet, swaying with more than just the motion of the ship. Samson sighed and revised his opinion. Now he was sure that Meredith was punishing him. Apparently, the Knight-Commander had felt the need to approve the transfer of a lyrium-addled youth to Kirkwall. It was one of the many reasons that a templar’s lyrium ration was so strictly controlled. Not that the chantry mothers with all their preaching would admit it, of course. But it still happened occasionally. Despite all the training before the first draught was given, some new initiates couldn’t cope with the power granted by lyrium and lost their minds to the inevitable dementia in a matter of months rather than years. Usually the unlucky sods were quickly transferred to some backwater chantry before their fellows began to have second thoughts about the life they’d signed up for. Older templars like himself were already resigned to that fate, having seen friends lost in their own minds and shuffled off by the chantry to slowly rot in some dead-end assignment. Whether it took months or years, they would all inevitably be lost eventually.

The bitter thoughts awoke an uncomfortable itch behind Samson’s eyes and an all-too familiar thirst. Before he could give in to the temptation to reach a faintly trembling hand into a concealed pocket, he noticed his new charge spot him amongst the milling refugees. Despite the initial unsteadiness, the Knight-Corporal made his way down the gangplank with a brisk stride, one hand resting comfortably on the hilt of the sword at his hip. The young templar stopped sharply in front of Samson with a salute. The level gaze that met his was sharp as broken glass. But the faint haunted look in combination with the deep shadows and premature lines at the corner of his eyes aged him and spoke of recent trauma barely buried behind the dampening song of lyrium.

“Knight-Corporal Cullen, transferred to Kirkwall with the approval of Knight-Commander Meredith.” Kirkwall’s proximity to and regular trade with Ferelden meant the two regions had similar accents and little difference in their use of the common tongue. But remnants of a rural Fereldan accent snuck through in the occasional word of the templar’s brief introduction. Not a noble’s son after all then.

Samson saluted crisply, armoured fist knocking on his breastplate above his heart. The templar had to be at least fifteen years younger than him. Couldn't have taken his vows much more than a year or two ago, but, regardless of whether or not Samson had once held the same title, he was a superior.

“Pleasure to meet you, Knight-Corporal, I’m Knight-Templar Samson.” _At least my tongue doesn’t slip on the title anymore_ , “Welcome to Kirkwall. I’ve been temporarily assigned to help you adjust to your new duties at the Gallows. Knight-Commander Meredith will want to meet you once you’ve settled in.”

“Of course. Thank you, Ser Samson.”

Civil enough, and not a poor fool lost to lyrium after all. He said as much to Cullen, “For a moment there, I thought I was stuck with a some rich Fereldan’s lyrium-addled son.”

Samson noted the barely-disguised disgust in the man’s eyes and cursed internally at the ill-advised attempt at a joke. He made a careful mental note to keep his burgeoning lyrium shakes and stash of lyrium dust especially well hidden whilst they shared quarters. A change in topic was probably in order.

“Follow me, Knight-Corporal,” he gestured with an arm, “Let me introduce you to the cheerfully-named Gallows, home of the Templar Order in Kirkwall. I could get someone to deliver your belongings to your quarters?” Although judging by the small travel sack at the templar’s side, he hadn't brought much with him.

The templar wearily hefted the sack back onto his shoulder, “No need.”

Samson noted that the templar stumbled slightly as he began to follow. “Long journey, huh?”

“It seems that ships and sea travel don’t agree with me,” Cullen sighed. The dread-filled glance he gave the ship as it moved off testified to that sentiment.

Samson barked a short laugh, “You Fereldans have never been good sea-goers. The Knight-Commander doesn’t expect you to pick up any of your duties until tomorrow anyway. You’ll have a chance to rest once we collect your new gear from the armoury. I’ll point out all the important sights on the way.” He cast a critical eye over the Fereldan templar’s thick robes. “Kirkwall plate isn’t as heavy as the full plate you’ll have been used to. But you’ll be grateful for the lighter gear when you find yourself patrolling in the middle of a Kirkwall summer.”

Samson ambled down the docks through the crowds of refugees. It had become a familiar sight over the past few months. Without fail the refuges were surprised to find that they were left at the Gallows docks rather than welcomed with open arms in Kirkwall proper. A large cluster milled about in front of a small contingent of Kirkwall guard that had been assigned to the Gallows to deal with the influx. Unsurprisingly, the refugees were desperate to be allowed across the harbour into the city. But after so many months, the guard were short on both patience and sympathy.

Samson began clearing a path through the crowd. He was brought to an abrupt halt as a haughty man in travel-stained but clearly expensive clothing grabbed at his arm. “Ser Templar, surely you are duty-bound to assist the people of Thedas. You must tell those arrogant sycophants to let me into Kirkwall. Once there, I have connections that will no doubt be of assistance to the order.”

Samson laughed and easily freed himself from the man’s grasp. He’d seen more than his fair share of desperates try to sneak into the Gallows as if it would somehow be better. “You and every other person here.”

The man’s eyes narrowed in anger and he turned to eye Cullen’s Fereldan garb. “You there, young templar. You are Fereldan. Surely you can assist a fellow countryman.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed in return at the condescending demand, but his response was civil, “My sympathies for your difficulty.”

Samson pulled Cullen onwards before the refugee could muster up further replies. The contingent of guards saluted casually as he sauntered up to the dock gates.

Cullen glanced back at the desperate crowd, “Is there nothing the order will do?”

“Meredith says we serve better by keeping watch over the mages,” scoffed Samson. “Anyway, she claims that if we give in to one sob story or arrogant nobleman we’ll be stuck with a flood of people that the city can’t support. And so instead we’re stuck with guarding both the mages and all these refugees camped at the docks. Most of them find their way into Darktown eventually.”

He led on through the dock gates up a wide shaded flight of steps. Finally, they emerged into an enclosed courtyard festooned with the bright banners emblazoned with the complex knotwork emblem of the Gallows. As impressive as the Gallows was from a distance, it was all the more imposing once one stood in the wide stone courtyard. The towering bulk of the Gallows loomed oppressively above them, stretching into the pale blue sky. Occasional narrow slit windows peered down in countless ranks from the sandstone walls. The lofty heights of the tower were topped by blunt stone spikes that were blurred by the day’s haze.

“Impressive sight, isn’t it,” remarked Samson. He indicated bronze statues leading to the Gallows’ main entrance. “And we have our cheerful relics of Tevinter to welcome all newcomers.”

The statues glittered dully in the late afternoon sunshine, although that hardly improved their subject matter. Each statue portrayed a Tevinter slave in various poses of pain or anguish. The more recent addition of statues of the Free Marches raven were less tarnished but did little to draw attention away from ancient signs of Tevinter oppression.

Although bright and busy with on-duty templars, merchants, and the odd mage, heavy iron portcullises at every archway and entrance of the courtyard made the building’s original purpose clear. If need be, the Gallows would become an impregnable fortress suitable for safely confining the most dangerous criminals and dissidents. The symbolism of its current use as a Circle of Magi could hardly be lost on anyone.

Samson indicated a passageway leading to a smaller courtyard to the left, “Templar Hall is that way. Templars are quartered there, along with all the usual facilities. Meredith and First Enchanter Orisino have offices on ground level off the central courtyard,” _Where they can keep an eye on each other_ , he added silently. “There are also training facilities for the recruits and a private chantry chapel, used for vigils and daily services.”

He pointed straight ahead towards the double flight of stairs leading up to a wide entrance with a particularly heavy portcullis. “Main entrance to the Circle is there. Meredith likes to keep it closed as much as possible. Keeps the mages safe, she says. We usually use the smaller entrance through Templar Hall. The mages have all the usual there. Library, meeting halls, quarters for the mages. The Harrowing chamber is isolated up at the top of the building.”

With a mild twinge of curiosity, Samson noted the barely-suppressed flinch that ran through his otherwise calm companion. Considering that lyrium cleanly stifled emotion, it was curious to have any kind of reaction. Apart from the obvious advantage of the abilities granted by lyrium, the confidence, clarity and removal of fear had surely prevented many a templar from being driven mad by the threat of abominations and demons. It had led many outsiders to see the templars as cold, unfeeling protectors. Must have seen more than his fair share of failed Harrowings already. _There’s definitely a mystery going on here. Not my business though._

Samson led Cullen through the shaded private courtyard of Templar Hall and into the building’s gloomy interior. Up until now, the serious templar keeping pace by his side had said nothing in response to his monologue. The only sign that the man was conscious had been the ceaseless flicker of his gaze as if he were inspecting each corridor and shadow. But now a spark of life revealed itself in the serious templar keeping pace by his side. He gestured towards the templars stationed at occasional intervals in the primary thoroughfare of the building. “The Kirkwall order is much larger than at Kinloch Hold. It’s good to see that you’re so well prepared.”

“We’re definitely the largest arm of the order in the Free Marches. There are several hundred ordained templars stationed out of the Gallows, plus a small permanent garrison at the city’s chantry. We also train our recruits here, so that adds another fifty or so.” Samson chuckled without much humour, “Kirkwall’s guard isn't good for anything better than looking fancy on ceremonial occasions. That leaves us the largest force in the city by a long distance. Meredith likes it that way ever since the last Viscount tried to kick us out of the city. But I’d bet it leaves the current Viscount pretty twitchy.”

Finally, they arrived at the armoury, located within the depths of the building. The room’s contents were arrayed with a precision that could only have been achieved by a tranquil. Neat ranks of swords of varying sizes were mounted against one wall, facing shelves of equipment waiting for repair or to be melted down for scrap. A lyrium forge glowed with molten heat in a corner of the room. He dragged his eyes away from the sealed safe he knew contained the lyrium supplies used in forging.

Samson waved to the tranquil waiting calmly at a desk at the far end of a room, “Abalar, I’ve brought our new Knight-Corporal for you. You should have equipment prepared for him.”

The tranquil handed over a precisely folded robe. “Spares robes will be provided in your quarters.” He intoned in that eerily flat voice that all the tranquil shared. He indicated a room off to the side. “Knight-Corporal’s armour is prepared for you in the arming room.”

Samson slouched against a nearby wall while he waited for Cullen to don his new equipment. Combined with the typical Kirkwall humidity, the room was oppressively hot. Not that it seemed to bother Abalar. His duty done, he waited patiently as a statue with not a drop of sweat on his face. Samson shivered slightly, despite the heat. He might just about understand why the rite of Tranquility was used, but he didn't have to like it.

Cullen emerged from the adjacent room in his new templar plate, its glimmering steel and smooth leather unmarred by the nicks and scratches that marked Samson’s worn armour. Despite the weight of the plate and mail, the man seemed to hold his shoulders and head higher than in the simple templar robes he had worn before. Clearly too young to have lost that sense of duty and pride in the order.

Cullen hefted the sword handed to him by the tranquil and gave a few trial sweeps and motions through the air. Despite the weariness that had been so obvious on the docks, the man moved smoothly through sword forms with a precision that slightly embarrassed Samson. Having been stuck on guard duty ever since getting on Meredith’s bad side, he had become pretty lazy with his own weapons practice.

“Remind me not to ever challenge you to a practice bout.” He joked.

With some surprise, Samson noted that a brief smirk almost cracked the serious expression that had seemed etched on Cullen’s face. _I guess there’s a real person somewhere in there after all._

“The templars in Kinloch Hold were usually equipped with greatswords,” he mused, “But I always preferred a longsword and shield.”

He came to a halt, navy robes swirling about his boots, and stowed the sword on his back with practised ease, followed by the shield. Samson had no doubt that Cullen had finished the precise sword forms at exactly the point he had started. He sighed internally, _the benefits of youth_.

Cullen hefted his small travel sack back onto his shoulder and turned to face Samson. Now that he was clad in full templar regalia, a semblance of animation and purpose seemed to have bled into his haunted expression. He indicated the heavy door to the armoury, “Shall we continue? The sooner I’m ready to begin my duties, the better.”

Samson continued his tour of Templar Hall with the now more animated templar. Samson wouldn't go so far as to call Cullen friendly, but he was courteous enough, which set him a step above some of the other officers. He judged that the man was completely dedicated to the Order, and certainly sharper than most. All you had to do was ignore the constant roving of his tired eyes as he watched every corner.

They completed the tour outside the Knight-Commander’s office. Samson nodded to the templar stationed outside.

“Is the Knight-Commander available? I have our new transfer out of Ferelden here to meet her.”

The guard remained stiffly at attention, but his helmeted head nodded, “She’s expecting you, go right ahead.”

Meredith rose from her desk as the pair entered the small office and immediately pinned Cullen with her icy gaze without sparing a glance for Samson. “Ah, Knight-Corporal Cullen, I presume. Welcome to Kirkwall.”

Cullen saluted crisply, “Thank you, Knight-Commander.”

“You came remarkably well recommended by Knight-Commander Greagoir when he suggested your transfer to Kirkwall. I read his and your reports of the recent tragic events in Kinloch Hold. Your previous Knight-Commander proposed idleness as an adequate solution.” Her gaze sharpened further, “But I believe I sense a kindred spirit in you. Such events can only be remedied with action. We templars have a duty to Andraste and the Maker that must be fulfilled. ‘Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him’”, she quoted. “Magic is dangerous, and the Order is the only bastion between the people of Thedas and its perils. I have no doubt that you will excel in fulfilling that duty.”

She smiled when Cullen nodded in clear agreement, his shadowed gaze meeting hers. “I have seen the price of leniency. I know now where my duty lies.”

“Good. You will serve under Knight-Lieutenant Ambris. I expect you to take up your duties immediately. Report to the Knight-Lieutenant tomorrow morning. I will be watching your progress closely.” Meredith finally turned to face Samson where he stood unobtrusively in a corner, “Ser Samson, I expect you to assist Ser Cullen until he settles into his duties here. Perhaps he might set an example for you of the appropriate attitude towards magic and mages,” she gave a sharp nod of dismissal, “Good evening.”

_Well that was certainly interesting._ _Wonder what those reports say. And what she sees in him,_ thought Samson. There were plenty of eager and zealous young templars amongst the hundreds of men and women in the Kirkwall order. Why bother with the special attention for this one? Whatever had happened or whatever Cullen had done during the breaking of Ferelden's circle had clearly been enough to interest Meredith. And knowing Meredith, it might not be a good sign for the mages of the Gallows. Ambris’ squads were generally posted on duty in the Circle itself. It would certainly be interesting to see how the Knight-Corporal interacted with his new mage charges.

He led them to the mess hall as he mused. Luckily Cullen didn't seem to be much bothered by the lack of running commentary Samson had provided on the earlier tour of Templar Hall. Samson directed Cullen to the officer’s table where many of the off-duty Knights-Corporal were already seated. He pointed over his shoulder to the seating for the common Knights-Templar, “I’ll be over there if you need anything.”

As he ate, he watched the young templar out of the corner of one eye. The Knights-Corporal were a mixed bunch. Some were young over-achievers of an age with Cullen. Others were slightly more grizzled veterans like himself. The Templar Order was likely one of the few places in Thedas where promotion was based on merit, even if family connections could still get you a more comfortable posting. Despite the enthusiastic introductions from his fellows, Cullen seemed to keep to himself, barring a few polite but brief responses.

An elbow to the side of his breastplate broke him from his subtle observations, “I hear Meredith gave you babysitting duty,” joked Everett as he sat down in his chair. He indicated the blond-haired templar at the officer’s table with a spoon, “I'm going to assume it’s that pasty-looking Fereldan over there. So, what’s his story?”

“Bit of a mystery. Fresh out of whatever happened at Kinloch Hold. Meredith seems to have singled him out for attention.”

“Hmm,” Everett sobered as he joined Samson in watching the other templar, “Sad business, that.” He paused and watched for a few moments as he chewed the simple food, “Looks like he’s about to fall asleep in his soup. I’d recommend you rescue him.”

Samson sighed as he pushed himself up from his chair and wandered back to Cullen. Babysitting duty was looking to be less fun than guard duty in the Gallows courtyard.

He led them up to the quarters on the third floor and indicated a door, “These are our quarters.” He quirked a smile, “I used to be a Knight-Corporal myself. Sadly, Meredith doesn’t think much of me. Still, they never bothered to send me back to the common barracks when I was demoted. I suppose they’ll kick me back out soon enough now that they've remembered.” A brief tremor in his hand reminded him of one final piece of business. “Before I forget. As an officer, you get your lyrium ration in weekly allotments. I’ll introduce you to Mother Anastase at the chapel in the morning.”

Samson sighed internally. That was pretty much the only perk of rank that he had found. Now he had to queue with all the rest of the Knights-Templar for a single carefully apportioned ration of concentrated blue from a Chantry Sister each morning. It was never enough of course. Even thinking about it made Samson’s skin itch and his mind was drawn momentarily to thoughts of the stash of lyrium dust hidden just beyond the chamber door.

Cullen’s mind was clearly elsewhere though as he inspected the room. An odd expression sharpened the previously dazed look of tiredness he had worn on the way from the mess hall.

“It’s... small.”

Samson barked a disbelieving laugh. “Don’t tell me the templars of Kinloch Hold have it better than us. At least here you get a room almost to yourself instead of sharing barracks.”

Cullen smiled awkwardly, and a gauntleted hand lifted to rub the back of his neck. “I… I mean... are there rooms with windows?”

“Maybe the Knight-Captain or Knight-Commander has one.” He scoffed, “You may not have noticed, but there aren't too many windows in the Gallows.”

“Right, of course.” The templar drew in a breath that seemed slightly unsteady. “Thank you, Samson, for your help today.”

“Not a problem, Knight-Corporal.” He indicated the room. “I’ll leave you to settle in and get some rest. I’ll wake you in the morning to meet Mother Anastase and your Knight-Lieutenant.”

Samson shook his head in bemusement as he made his way back to the mess hall to finish his meal. The young templar seemed to seesaw between dutiful seriousness and awkward uncertainty. He supposed the contrast could be chalked up to the fatigue of a long journey. Still, that was a mystery to be solved another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out my fanfic writing style is heavily influenced by my 'day job'. If I could put references and citations everywhere, I would. If anyone spots something that obviously goes against canon, I'd welcome a comment.
> 
> Notes on the timeline for the early chapters -  
> Months for the early chapters are roughly based on the fact that the Blight ends at the beginning of 9:31 Dragon. DA: Awakening takes place six months after the end of the Blight ("The events of Awakening begin six months after the conclusion of Dragon Age: Origins, specifically on the seventeenth of Ferventis.").
> 
> To make timelines fit and make sense in my personal canon: Hawke arrived maybe a month or two earlier than Cullen and is currently working off her indenture, the Blight is still in full swing, Cullen is no more than two months distant from the events at Kinloch Hold (~1 month in Kinloch Hold post breaking of the circle plus <1 month at Greenfell and slightly more than a week's travel time to Kirkwall), Anders is still in Ferelden and won't arrive in Kirkwall until seven months after the end of the Blight (DA:Awakening).
> 
> The timeline means this is still a very delicate Cullen, not the more stable Knight-Captain that Hawke meets.


	2. New Start, New Problems

**Kirkwall, Day Two: Harvestmere 9:30 Dragon**

Cullen woke groggily, limbs stiff and cold and his mind hazy. His breathing felt laboured, as if his armour had shrunk to a size too small and now compressed his chest in its steel grip. He levered himself up from cold flagstones and blinked in confusion at the lurid purple barrier in front of him. He laid a tentative hand on the obstruction. His gauntlet transmitted a faint vibration through his arm and all the way to his boots. Still, dispelling a barrier was a simple task for any templar. He pulled on the lyrium that sang in his blood and … nothing. The glimmering barrier continued to cast its sickly light on the small antechamber. A barrier this strong could only have been cast by a group of mages… or a single blood mage. The tales of blood magic told to initiates in Templar training had been enough to chill him to the bone.

“Andraste give me strength,” he whispered and tried again to dispel the barrier. The gleaming surface remained unmarred and undimmed.

The door to the antechamber creaked open and a man in mage robes came ambling through.

“Ah! One of our erstwhile young protectors has awoken!” he motioned towards a previously unnoticed second barrier on the opposite side of the chamber, “Your colleague has yet to rouse himself.”

Through the cylindrical enclosure, Cullen could see the prone form of Ser Beval. For a brief moment his head echoed with a recollection of screams, the crackle and burn of combat magic in the air, the clash of swords and shouted commands. A trace of cold fear wormed its way past the soothing song of lyrium as flickers of memory returned to him. Demons and blood magic. Knight-Commander Greagoir had sealed the tower, trapping him and a handful of his fellow templars in a circle gone mad. They had fought their way up, trying to protect the few remaining uncorrupted mages and to find the source of the insanity and then… he could remember nothing else. He shook his head. Was that actually the last thing he remembered?

“Enchanter Uldred, what is happening?”

As a young Knight-Templar, the chain of command between him and the Senior Enchanter was a rather complex affair. This was a man he should have been able to trust, second only to the First Enchanter in the mage hierarchy.

Uldred regarded Cullen haughtily. “Young templar, the mages of Kinloch Hold have decided that a change in leadership is needed. We neither require nor want the oversight of you and your Templar brethren.”

“I don’t understand. Where is Knight-Commander Greagoir? What-?” Cullen stopped, at a complete loss for words. Whilst some of his fellow templars had demonstrated a lack of tolerance for magic, he had never seen anything that would have led him to believe mages were not to be trusted. To Knight-Commander Greagoir’s chagrin, Cullen would even call many of the younger mages his friends. Of course, they had chafed at life in the circle, but no more than some of the young templars who also found themselves bound to the isolation of the Circle Tower for the foreseeable future. Surely this kind of outright rebellion was unthinkable.

“Your Knight-Commander has fled. We have begun to cleanse Kinloch Hold of templar influence.” He paused as heavy treads sounded from the neighbouring room. Cullen gasped a whispered prayer as two twisted forms emerged from behind the door. Their flesh looked as though it had melted and tangled in the tattered remains of circle mage robes. Tufts of hair poked haphazardly above faces that no longer held anything human. Each figure carried the limp form of a templar over their shoulder.

“Abominations.” Cullen gasped. With the exception of recent events, he had never seen an abomination. The few harrowings he had attended had all passed smoothly. Even so, every initiate was taught what to expect. His hand flew to his back in an attempt to draw his weapon but hit nothing but air. The two-hander that should have been resting with a comfortable weight at his back was gone. He felt painfully powerless.

“Such a cruel name,” sighed Uldred, “These faithful mages have helped to free us all from the shackles that the Chantry binds us with.”

The barrier containing Beval shimmered briefly then reformed as the unconscious bodies of Ser Annlise and Ser Farris were thrown unceremoniously to land in a heap on the floor with a muted thump and clatter of armour.

Cullen lurched as time abruptly seemed to shift. He found himself on his knees in a now empty room. Uldred had disappeared, leaving him with the twisted and bloodied bodies of those who had been torn apart by abominations before his very eyes while he could only watch, trapped behind the impenetrable barrier. Rot began to ooze from the stained flagstones, drowning the corpses littering the chamber in glistening red that crept higher and higher. The rot crept closer and closer with agonising slowness, threatening to drown him. Finally, the nauseating substance pressed against the gleaming barrier, climbing the walls until the tiny space was lit only by a pulsating purple glow. Whispered demands grew to deafening shouts as the withered yet familiar faces of the dead pressed up against the barrier, decayed features drooping beneath eyes that blazed with accusation. He tumbled backwards, gauntlets slipping in gore. Try as he might he could not stand. His eyes would not close. If he could just close his eyes, the vision would fade away.

Cullen bolted upright with a gasp, damp sheets twisted around his knees as his mind roiled with fear and guilt. His gaze darted with barely contained panic over the unfamiliar confines of the darkened room. Lingering traces of the nightmare tinged the faint light leaking under the door a lurid shade of purple. His breathing hitched in his throat until his memory of the previous day returned to him. This was the Kirkwall Circle, the Gallows. These were his assigned quarters. He squeezed his eyes shut and kneaded his pounding temples. _Thank the Maker. Just a dream._ He had survived. He had not submitted to the foul offers of the demons of fear, despair, or desire. _I can endure_. Even in his head, the statement felt more like a pleading prayer than confident certainty.

He glanced cautiously over to the bed on the opposite side of the room. More than one person had complained in recent months that he spoke or shouted in his sleep. But the shadowed form lay motionless, apparently still asleep. _Thank the Maker, maybe I didn’t make too much noise after all._ He tried and failed to ignore the tightness in his chest. Cullen sifted through vague memories of the previous day’s tour of the Gallows in an attempt to recall if there had been a window anywhere in the gloomy depths of Templar Hall.

As quietly as he was able, he pulled a fresh robe and his boots over still-damp skin. He made a vain attempt to neaten sweat-soaked curls of hair and slipped through the chamber door on shaky legs. The oppressive silence in the corridors suggested it was still a long way from dawn. Apart from a single templar standing watch at an intersection, the officers’ corridor was empty.

In his muddled state, he could not remember where to find the bathhouse in the maze of featureless corridors and resigned himself to having to ask for directions from the lone templar guard.

The templar’s helmeted head turned as he heard Cullen’s approach.

“Where can I find the bathhouse?”

The guard eyed the pale templar in front of him dubiously, “Not sure I recognise you.”

Despite or possibly because of the lingering effect of the nightmare, his eyes narrowed, and he answered more coldly than he had originally intended, “Knight-Corporal Cullen, arrived from Ferelden yesterday.”

The guard straightened and saluted sharply, “Ah, apologies, Ser. The officer’s bathhouse is that way. First corridor to your right.” He pointed out the way and attempted to straighten himself further to attention.

Cullen strode down the corridor in the indicated direction, grateful that his legs had steadied. Despite his best efforts, a week’s ship journey with little to no sleep had ruined any attempt at truly memorising the entire layout of Kirkwall’s Templar Hall. By the end of each day for the past week, the only thing keeping him standing had been the strength granted by lyrium.

Without a look at the sky, he couldn’t judge the time. Or at least that was the weak excuse he gave himself for why he so desperately needed to see open air. He recalled Samson saying that the officers’ corridors ran adjacent to a balcony overlooking the internal courtyard of Templar Hall. Perhaps he could find the open sky before reaching the bathhouse.

His breath hitched again, and he found himself wishing he could already meet with this Mother Anastase for his lyrium ration. A searing blue to drown out the dreams and take lingering fear. He quickly crushed that weak temptation. Down that path lay madness, as he had seen in the vacant eyes of the older templar supposedly assigned to a peaceful retirement in Greenfell.

As the haze of interrupted sleep cleared from Cullen’s mind, he found himself in vaguely familiar territory. A gentle gust cooled the drying sweat on his forehead. He turned down a passage and urgently walked through a darkened doorway into the still night beyond. He paused in front of the balustrade with his eyes closed and face tilted to the dark sky. The tightness in his chest eased as he felt the warm breeze on his skin. After a moment he tilted his head to look down into the courtyard below. Torchlight glinted off the plate of the templars stationed in the shadowed space. As with the corridors inside Templar Hall, the area was otherwise silent.

A quick glance back at the sky told him it was perhaps an hour past midnight. The faint hope that he might be able to sleep the entire night once he was away from Ferelden died with a sigh. He smiled grimly. Even so, five hours of sleep was quite possibly a record for the past two months.

“I don’t often expect to find anyone out here during the day, let alone in the middle of the night,” came an amused voice from behind his back.

Cullen turned abruptly, muscles tensing as his feet unconsciously slid into a combat-ready stance, and gave a sharp salute when he saw a man in Knight-Captain’s plate framed in the doorway behind him, “Apologies, Knight-Captain.”

“No need for such formality. I know we have plenty of templars stationed here, but I don’t believe I recognise you, Ser…?”

“Cullen, Knight-Corporal Cullen.”

Brief recognition tinged with relief glinted in the man’s gaze, “Ah, yes. You were transferred from Kinloch Hold at the request of … whoever your Knight-Commander was. I’m Knight-Captain Harmoran. Allow me to welcome you to Kirkwall.” He extended an arm.

Cullen blinked briefly in confusion at the friendly gesture and then clasped the man’s forearm, “Thank you, Knight-Captain.”

Harmoran moved to stand with his arms resting on the wide balustrade, “It’s nice to enjoy a little fresh air after finishing my duties for the day.” He turned to look back at Cullen, still standing uneasily halfway between the doorway and the balcony edge, “What brings you out here at such a late hour?”

Cullen’s hand rose of its own accord to rub the back of his neck, “I, uh… don’t sleep much anymore.”

A brief flicker of sympathy crossed the Knight-Captain’s face. “Fair enough. Neither do I, if it must be admitted. We have an excellent library here, I can highly recommend it as an alternative diversion.”

He spent a moment gazing down into the courtyard below whilst Cullen shifted, unwilling to leave without a proper dismissal. The Knight-Captain sighed, “I suppose you’ve already spoken to the Knight-Commander. She approved your transfer almost as soon as she read the reports out of Kinloch Hold, you know. Allow me to offer an alternative view on the vehemence of her perspective on our duty as templars. Our duty is to protect the people of Thedas from the dangers of magic, yes. But we are first and foremost protectors, not jailors. For mages to trust us, we must trust them. Your experience in Kinloch Hold has shown you the tragic side of magic, but do not allow that to twist your actions”

“We have a duty to protect people from magic. We cannot be lenient. I will not falter in upholding my duty as others have done.” A trace of the bitterness that had marked Cullen in the months before he left the Circle Tower wormed into the words.

“No one faults you for the events in Ferelden’s Circle.”

Cullen turned away from the sympathetic gaze and repeated coldly as much for himself as the Knight-Captain, “I have a duty to uphold.”

The Knight-Captain smiled sadly as if the words and sentiment behind them were familiar, “I understand,” he nodded a dismissal, “Good night, Knight-Corporal.”

Cullen returned to his route through the dim passageways of Templar Hall to the bathhouse. The Knight-Captain’s sympathetic words had reminded him of Knight-Commander Greagoir and the price of that leniency. His previous Knight-Commander’s tolerant attitude to the mages of the Circle Tower had led to its fall. Who could guess how many blood mages might still be hiding in plain sight. His fists clenched unconsciously at his side tight enough that his bones ached.

The few words Knight-Commander Meredith had spoken to him resonated. The order was a bastion to protect people against the dangers of magic. Duty demanded that he serve as best as he could, and that he not let lingering weakness prevent him from fulfilling that duty.

A brief span of time spent in the bathhouse finally allowed Cullen to remove the last of the cold sweat that chilled his limbs. Facing a mirror, he smoothed a few errant curls of hair into a semblance of neatness. The face that stared back at him was clearly marked by two months of insomnia. Sleep eluded him as often as not now, and what little he did manage was hardly refreshing. His cheekbones stood out a little too sharply, having eaten little on the ship journey from Ferelden. He scrubbed a hand over the unfamiliar hint of stubble on his chin. Finally, he met his own hollowed amber gaze in the mirror. He shuddered slightly with the memory of the trauma that had produced the faint premature lines marking his eyes and brow.

He turned away from the mirror abruptly. Tomorrow he would finally be able to return to full duties serving the Templar Order, instead of the inaction that had been forced on him since the breaking of Ferelden’s circle. It would be a relief to finally be able to serve to the best of his abilities again, to prove to himself and the Maker that he would not falter.

Despite the bitterness that Knight-Captain Harmoran’s words had rekindled in Cullen, he spent the remainder of the night in the generously appointed library in the upper levels of Templar Hall. He noted with some pleasure that the templars standing watch in the halls didn’t seem inclined to question his presence as the first had. Finally, the faint lightening of the sky visible through the space’s narrow windows indicated that dawn was breaking.

The templar guard stationed in the officers’ corridor pulled himself sharply to attention as Cullen passed on his route back to his shared quarters. Samson still slept, apparently without having moved in the hours since Cullen had left. Cullen donned his armour with ease in the faint light that slipped through the partially open door, despite the unfamiliarity of the lighter Kirkwall plate. Finally, Samson stirred with a groan to the sound of the dawn bell as Cullen finished arming himself, the weight of the equipment a comforting pull on his shoulders.

Samson eyed Cullen blearily, “Early waker, huh?” He waved a hand, “The Knight-Lieutenant doesn’t expect us until mid-morning bell. No duties until then.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed, “I expect there’s morning training?”

“Of course. Not sure when your assigned sessions will be, but feel free to join in down in the training ground if you feel like volunteering for extra drills.” He sighed and levered himself up to drink greedily from a jug of water by the bed, “If you’re committed to being awake, I’ll meet you in front of the Chantry chapel in half an hour so we can get you introduced to Mother Anastase.”

Cullen left the other templar to his sluggishness and wound his way back through half remembered corridors. He paused in front of the wide archway leading to Templar Hall’s chapel. The high-ceilinged chamber was lit by a combination of torchlight and the flicker of the eternal flame that illuminated the space with a warmth that was lacking from the glowstone-lit corridors outside. The gentle glow of dawn had just begun to the sneak through the chamber’s elevated windows to highlight a serene statue of Andraste, face tilted up and sword in hand. The representation might be different to that typically found in Ferelden, but the imagery was as comfortingly familiar as the sound of the chant that echoed from the rafters.

A bare handful of Knights-Templar had grouped by a side passage to collect their lyrium rations. A pair of templars in heavy plate flanked the Chantry sister as she distributed each carefully-measured vial of concentrated crystalline blue. Each vial was in theory intended to serve as an adequate dose for a single day. But even before the unpleasant secret of lyrium had been revealed to him by the aged templar at Greenfell, he had heard whispered advice from more experienced templars. The single vial provided each day could be stretched out to last two days, even more. A prudent templar ingested enough to maintain the strength and abilities lyrium granted without risking the onset of withdrawal symptoms. It was a precise balance to strike. The Chantry mothers turned a blind eye to those who collected their doses more sporadically, as long as the templars continued with the daily ritual imbibing of lyrium. But even to the most cautious templars, the idea of stopping their regular lyrium dose altogether was met with a mixture of dread and revulsion.

He felt a twinge of shame for the brief time at Greenfell when he had begun to mix his daily lyrium draught too strong with the sympathetic assistance of the well-meaning Chantry mother. The concentrated doses had drowned the nightmares and fear that he would once again be left weak and powerless against the threat of demons and blood mages. Now his strength of faith would overcome the temptation to use lyrium as a crutch.

He dropped to a knee before the towering statue of Andraste, falling comfortably into the familiar posture of bowed head and clasped hands. He lost himself in the reassuring verses of the Canticle of Trials, as familiar to him as his own name. _Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, Should they set themselves against me._

A tap on his shoulder brought him out of his prayer with a flinch that he could not disguise as he shot to his feet with a rattle of plate. He barely managed to suppress the instinctive move of his hand to the sword in its sheath at his back. Samson raised his hands placatingly, “Sorry about that, Knight-Corporal. I’ll stomp a little more loudly next time,” he gestured with a thumb over his shoulder before Cullen could form a response, “Let’s go get you introduced to the Mother, shall we?”

He led Cullen to a nondescript door located in the corner of the chapel and knocked gently. He cracked the door open following a muffled acknowledgement, “Mother Anastase, this is Knight-Corporal Cullen, just transferred from Ferelden.”

“Ah. The Knight-Commander mentioned you would be passing by, Ser Samson. Come, let me see you, Ser Cullen.”

With a deference ingrained after years of Chantry training and service, Cullen stepped into the office with a short bow to the elderly Mother seated at the small desk, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mother Anastase.”

The Mother inspected his immaculate appearance with a calculating gaze, “Meredith expects great things from you. I hope to hear that you serve the Chantry well.”

She tapped a simple square box on the corner of her desk, “As an officer in the order, you are entrusted with a greater supply of lyrium to fulfil your duties to the Maker. You may return to the Sisters each week to refill empty vials.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Cullen responded, although the Mother had already turned back to the papers on her desk. He collected the box with a muted tinkle as the vials rattled against one another. The Chantry typically only entrusted officers or Chantry sisters and mothers with anything more than a day’s supply of lyrium. Requisitions for more were almost invariably met with refusal, regardless of what reason a templar could muster. It was a level of faith he had no intention of betraying.

As he left the office and turned back to Samson, he couldn’t help but notice that the man struggled to tear his gaze away from the box in his hands. Nevertheless, he bid the man a brief farewell, with a promise to meet in the mess hall prior to finding Knight-Lieutenant Ambris.

He returned to his quarters and propped the door open with a chair so that the dim light from the corridor spilled into the cramped room. Cullen turned to the lyrium kit that sat neatly aligned with the edge of the otherwise empty shelving next to his armour stand. The kit, made with his own hands before completing his vigil, was one of the few items he had brought with him from Ferelden. The rest of his travel sack had contained only spare clothing that was unnecessary now that he had been provided with new equipment. In contrast, Samson’s shelving was crowded with an assortment of odds and ends and the occasional battered book. Cullen could barely understand what possible need the man could have for the mysterious selection of curios and papers.

Cullen flipped open the lid of the kit and ran a hand over the engraved inlay of Andraste. He removed a vial from its box and, with familiar motions, extracted a precise half-measure of lyrium, watching the liquid swirl with a diffuse glow. He settled the kit’s tools back into their places and closed the lid with a sharp snap. Finally, he drained the draught.

The smooth liquid burned its way down his throat, searing away lingering weariness and dulling the memory of the previous night’s nightmare. In its place, a familiar sense of crystalline clarity and strength returned to his previously tired mind and limbs. Nevertheless, a vague feeling of disquiet led Cullen to lock the box of vials into the chest at the foot of his bed before leaving his quarters.

The familiar sound of barked orders greeted Cullen as he entered the training ground. The open space released a tension in Cullen’s shoulders that he hadn’t been aware of until he left the dim confines of Templar Hall’s interior. Faint traces of the rising sun had just begun to illuminate the lofty heights of the enclosed courtyard’s walls. The space was filled with precise ranks of templars lined up with all the discipline and order instilled in them from their first days as recruits. It never failed to be an impressive sight of the might of the Chantry’s defenders.

With a nod of approval, the Knight-Lieutenant in charge of the training session motioned Cullen into line with the assembled templars. Cullen transitioned smoothly through the sword forms, stopping only in the rare moments where the Knight-Lieutenant halted the group to correct the odd templar with a stern bark. Finally, he paired them off to practice single combat. In truth, the level of skill to which a templar was trained was rarely utilised. A lone apostate, whilst dangerous, would quickly crumble without magic. But the order stood ready for any eventuality, and their reputation as the one of the most proficient armed forces in Thedas was not undeserved. Only the Orlesian Chevaliers dared make any claim to a higher level of skill. A combination of Fereldan and Templar pride meant that Cullen had every confidence that a templar was more than a match for a chevalier.

A hint of satisfaction trickled into Cullen’s mind as he beat two of his three assigned opponents. The hours of practice he had subjected himself to over the past two months to restore his strength were paying off. He sensed more than saw the Knight-Lieutenant standing behind him as the man motioned a final opponent into place. A test from the Knight-Lieutenant for a new templar? With quick flicks of his gaze he catalogued the man’s slightly off-centre stance that would have made a negligible difference against many opponents. Cold logic allowed him to predict a series of likely moves and responses as he raised his sword in salute. The man launched himself forward with a speed only possible with the reinforced strength granted by lyrium. A series of feints and parries were traded between the pair before they disengaged, still breathing evenly. Now Cullen took the offensive, stepping forward smoothly to launch a feint towards his opponent’s side. An opportunity to take advantage of the man’s weak stance finally revealed itself. A bash with the shield sent his opponent staggering before Cullen hooked the man’s leg back to send him tumbling to the floor with a clatter of metal. Cullen rested his sword tip on the man’s breastplate.

“Nicely done, Knight-Corporal. I’ll have to see if I can get you to join me in training the recruits some time.” The Knight-Lieutenant indicated a cluster of young recruits in light exercise armour that waited to use the training ground. _If that was a test, I hope I passed._

Cullen removed his helm and nodded his thanks.

“You must be Ambris’ new Knight-Corporal from Ferelden. Well, you’re welcome to join my training sessions any time. Might embarrass a few of this lazy bunch into actually working hard.” Despite the words, the man’s tone indicated he was reasonably satisfied with the remaining templars in front of him, “But, don’t let me keep you.”

He turned to begin marshalling the waiting recruits as Cullen left the gradually lightening courtyard.

Despite a lack of appetite, Cullen claimed breakfast in the bustle of the mess hall. As with the previous evening, he was bombarded by inquisitive glances from the others seated at the officers’ table. Even after the clear reticence to talk that he had displayed at the previous evening’s meals, a pair moved to seat themselves on either side of him.

“I’m Mettin,” began the first, a man perhaps ten years older than Cullen. He pointed out the woman on Cullen’s other side. “That there is June, our resident spy for the nobility of Kirkwall.”

The woman, perhaps a few years older than Cullen, scoffed, “Don’t listen to him. I’m the fifth child of a minor noble family that nobody in Kirkwall cares about. They couldn’t find anything better to do with me than give me to Chantry service. I decided I’d like to do something useful and became a templar rather than a Chantry sister.” She rolled her eyes with an amused glare for Mettin, “Apparently, that means it was all some elaborate plan to worm my way into the Templar’s trust. Mettin just doesn’t believe it’s possible for me to have become a Knight-Corporal before he did.”

Despite his reluctance to socialise, Cullen couldn’t help but ask, “June? That’s an elven name.”

June laughed, “That it is. It infuriates the Chantry mothers every time they speak to me. My parents clearly heard just enough Dalish legends to like the name without realising what it was. Or that it was a male name.” She eyed Cullen approvingly, “Clearly they’re not the only ones who’ve read elven stories.”

Cullen quickly suppressed a confused mix of emotion at why he had read those elven history books back in Kinloch Hold.

“So, do you know where you’re to be assigned?” asked Mettin, “All we had heard was that a Ser Cullen was being transferred from Ferelden.”

“I’ll be serving under Knight-Lieutenant Ambris.”

The calculating looks from the two templars began to make Cullen feel mildly uncomfortable. No doubt they were waiting for a chance to grill him for news on the ever-advancing blight or Kinloch Hold. Neither was a topic he was willing or able to discuss.

“Aha, probably Circle duties. I don’t envy you, all that magic in the air gives me the shivers. That much power is dangerous.” He paused, and his grim expression gradually smoothed back out to a casual smile. Perhaps sensing the tension in the air, he continued, “I’m currently assigned to duties in Templar Hall under Knight-Lieutenant Karras, although we’re often sent to hunt down apostates. June’s squad generally deals with patrols around the Gallows, what with all these Fereldan refugees clogging up the docks.” He glanced at Cullen, “No offense.”

June sighed, “Ignore him. He doesn’t trust anyone who isn’t a templar. Circle duty is a good posting, assuming you don’t mind the work.”

Cullen hardly knew how to respond in the face of the woman’s friendliness. Instead, he turned back to his breakfast with a half-hearted smile.

When it became clear that no more responses were forthcoming from Cullen, they left him to his meal in silence. Service in the Circle itself was indeed one of the core duties of the Templar Order, along with recovering those with newly awoken magical ability, apostates and maleficarum. It was in these duties that they could best satisfy their responsibility to protect people and mages from the dangers of magic. Be it watch duty during lessons and in the chambers of the circle or monitoring the progress of new apprentices. His gaze hardened. Or investigating reports of forbidden magic, a duty he would happily fulfil. No doubt he would be expected to attend harrowings too, although that thought left him cold.

Finally, Samson emerged through the mess hall’s wide archway and elbowed through the crowded room to Cullen. “If you’re done here, we’ll go meet your Knight-Lieutenant in her office.”

He proceeded through yet another maze of half-familiar corridors in the gloomy heart of Templar Hall until they arrived in the correct location. A trio of other Knights-Corporal followed close behind as they entered the cramped office. As with so many rooms in Templar Hall, the windowless office was lit only by a combination of candlelight and lyrium-infused glowstones.

The Knight-Lieutenant was a surprisingly short older woman with red hair that seemed to bristle from her scalp. Despite being almost a head shorter than the others in the room, she seemed to peer down at them all as she began with little preamble.

“Let’s get right to it. Ser Cullen is taking over the late Ser Bastien’s squad.” She handed over a neat pile of orders and patrol routes, “Your regular assigned duty for the month is in the Circle proper. Your squad will meet you in the Gallows courtyard. Samson, you’re assigned to Ser Cullen’s squad temporarily. Thrask. Syla. Regular assigned patrols and stations in the Circle.” She skewered Syla with a glare as she handed over their orders. “One of the Senior Enchanters has passed on complaints about the conduct of the men under your command. I trust I won’t hear anything further. And Thrask. The mages are your charges, not your friends. Please try and remember that when you’re standing guard duty.” She turned to the final Knight-Corporal, “Drewan, there’s a harrowing scheduled for this evening. Prepare your squad accordingly.”

Cullen flicked through the neatly written orders, cataloguing times and locations. A reasonable amount of free time in the evening left him uncomfortable. The more he could fill his days with duties, the better.

“Knight-Lieutenant, if I may, I would like to volunteer myself for any additional duties as and when they are required.”

The Knight-Lieutenant blinked and then broke into a delighted laugh. She turned to the other three Knights-Corporal in front of her and gestured to Cullen, “Hear that, you sorry lot? We’ve got someone who’s actually enthusiastic to do their Maker-given duty.” She turned back to Cullen and judged his shadowed eyes, sharply contrasting his otherwise immaculate appearance, “You only arrived yesterday, Cullen. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather settle in a little bit before you start volunteering for extra duties?”

“I want to serve, Knight-Lieutenant.”

She smiled approvingly, “Far be it for me to get in the way of that.” She shuffled through the remaining papers on her overflowing desk, “The Knight-Commander is constantly increasing the number of templars she wants assigned on patrol. It’ll be nice to have someone who’s willing to take up some of the slack.” She eventually managed to extract another densely packed page of orders and handed it to Cullen, “Select those routes that fit in with your regular assigned duties. I expect you to provide me with your updated schedule by tomorrow at the latest.” She eyed the remaining templars in the room. “Anyone else feel like volunteering? No? Fine. Dismissed.”

As they made their way to the Gallows courtyard, Cullen could see Samson eyeing him like he’d gone mad, “Volunteering for extra duties? You only just got here.” He chuckled, “Angling for a quick promotion, are you?”

“I cannot fulfil my duties to the Maker by idling my time away.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was as close as Cullen was willing to get.

“Fine. You don’t have to admit it if you don’t want to,” he remarked dubiously, “As long as you don’t volunteer me for anything while I’m stuck with you.”

The pair walked a short distance before idle curiosity caught Cullen. “What happened to Ser Bastien?”

“He was killed in service,” sighed Samson, “Kirkwall has always had more trouble with blood mages than other cities. He was assigned to investigate a report of an apostate in Darktown. Half the squad was wiped out before they could bring the blood mage down.”

Cullen could almost feel his blood freezing as Samson described the event. Samson could clearly see the sudden stiffness in Cullen’s stride because he raised a placating hand, “Bastien wasn’t properly prepared. None of us will be making that mistake any time soon.”

The pair returned to the wide expanse of the Gallows’ main courtyard. The impact of the looming bulk of the Gallows had not lessened in the slightest. The grim presence of the tower constantly lurked in the corner of his vision.

Cullen’s gaze was drawn from the looming Gallows to a grouping of fifteen or so Knights-Templar. They chatted idly, helms held loosely under their arms. As was typical for the order, the squad was a mixed group of men and women of all ages. On spotting his approach, they quickly replaced their helms and drew themselves into neat paired columns. Cullen stopped uncertainly for a moment. He had been a fully initiated templar for little more than a year. Many of the templars in front of him would have had significantly more experience than him. The thought that Knight-Commander Greagoir had promoted him not for his ability but as some poor attempt at an apology was inescapable.

Samson settled himself into the group with a casual salute. Cullen shook himself from his hesitancy and stepped forward to introduce himself to his command. The orders he had reviewed were clear. The remainder was up to his discretion to distribute the templars under his command across positions throughout the training halls of the Gallows. With growing confidence, he was able to assign each pair under his command to the listed patrols and stations. Mindful of the familiar risk of boredom, he ensured that each unit alternated between patrols and watch duty throughout the day. Somehow, despite his youth and inexperience, the templars under his command saluted crisply and without protest as they were assigned to their duties. Discipline was instilled in every member of the order from their first days as an initiate, but there were countless small ways to make displeasure with a commanding officer known. No doubt those small irritations would become obvious over time.

Finally, only he and Samson as the odd man of the squad were left in the Gallows courtyard. Cullen could see the other man watching him appraisingly and could only hope that the look didn’t indicate disappointment with his temporary commanding officer.

“Unfortunately, I’ll still have to rely on your knowledge of the Gallows, Samson.” He managed a smirk for the older templar.

“It beats guard duty in this courtyard. The sunshine is brutal, even at this time of year.” He eyed the rising sun resentfully. “Still, with the speed you seem to be settling in, I don’t think you’ll need me all that much longer, Knight-Corporal.”

“Nonetheless, I appreciate the assistance.”

With an internal sigh of relief, Cullen strode through the Gallows courtyard and into the Circle. After two months of being forced to inactivity, it would be an inarguable pleasure to finally begin to serve again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two chapters are introductory. Following chapters will start racing through the months leading up to the start of events of DAII


	3. Enduring the Circle

**Harvestmere - Haring 9:30 Dragon**

The following month passed in a satisfying blur of routine. To Cullen’s disappointment, his Knight-Lieutenant had rejected his initial proposed schedule with the protest that he needed to sleep at some point. Cullen didn’t dare object. Even so, he filled his days with his duties, claiming the command of additional patrols in the Circle and surroundings of the Gallows. His spare night hours were spent in the calming space and quiet of Templar Hall’s library, whilst his mornings were spent in the chantry and in training sessions. He worked himself to exhaustion each night before tumbling into bed. It seemed to help a little. Sleep was still hard to come by, but at least he slept. Even if nightmares still plagued him more often than not.

Leadership of the squad was an adjustment for him. His jump from recent initiate to command had been abrupt and, without exception, every templar in his squad was older and more experienced. But if they resented his youth, their only complaints were behind his back. It took time, but he soon grew accustomed to the personalities and behaviours of his squad. Managing their individual quirks became habit. A templar found to regularly return in a drunken state from nights spent in Kirkwall’s Lowtown was confined to the Gallows fortress for a week. A pair found to quarrel regularly were separated into new assignments far from each other. Each week seemed to reveal a new set of problems to manage. The challenge even managed to take his mind off his memories for much of the time. Somehow, even with his reserved nature and youth, the templars under his command began to trust him to address their complaints.

Friendship was another matter entirely. A voice in the back of his mind constantly warned him of the dangers of attachment and so he found himself responding lukewarmly at best to the friendly overtures of his fellow Knights-Corporal. Mettin and many of the others were persistent in attempting to draw him out, eager for gossip from their lone Fereldan and veteran of the events at Kinloch Hold. Their persistence continued regardless of his regular refusal of invitations to join them in the taverns and other ‘delights’ of Kirkwall. He could only desperately hope that they didn't notice the burning in his cheeks.

Others were less obviously prying. June’s cheerful banter seemed to continue completely unaware of his persistent awkwardness around her and his brusque responses. Others left him in peace, reluctant to speak until they knew his attitude better.

Cullen slowly began to adjust to the responsibilities and expectations of his position, but he could not shake the persistent sense of unease he felt in the Gallows. Underlying everything, there was a disquiet to the place that he had never felt in Kinloch Hold. The typical aloofness between templars and their charges was to be expected. Mages did their best to ignore their guardians, whilst also watching their every move. But it seemed to be tinged with a hint of something else that he could not identify. Whispered conversations in corners quickly fell silent when he passed by on patrol. Templars’ interactions with their mage charges were edged with hostility that he both understood and condemned.  
That sense of unease only amplified the constant tension he could not avoid when on duty in the circle. Each day his attention on the activities of his mage charges was as unflagging as the next. He could not shake the belief that, at any moment, the circle could fall as quickly as had Kinloch Hold. He had no intention of being caught unprepared again. And so, he watched every mage, as near to unblinking as he could manage, with the nagging fear that demons lurked behind every sideways glance, that the secrets of blood magic were being passed on in every conversation cut short.

Cullen’s second month in Kirkwall was marked by the Satinalia holiday. In distant memories of his childhood, the holiday had been a cheerful occasion full of gifts and a vast feast for the village and surrounding farms. His later experiences as a recruit and in Kinloch Hold had been a combination of solemn chantry services and relaxed feast day meals for off-duty templars and mages, albeit separately. The holiday was a more muted affair in the Gallows. The Knight-Commander demanded a full templar guard at the chantry service for the mage inhabitants of the Gallows. For the first time, the size and vigilance of the Kirkwall order became obvious to Cullen. Even with the majority of the order on duties elsewhere, the presence of the Knight-Commander and Knight-Captain, along with ten squads and their officers, was a silent testimony to the unyielding might of the order. Despite the presence of over one hundred templars in the hall, Cullen’s blood was icy throughout the entire service. Where Kinloch Hold had hosted a feast for its mage inhabitants, the day in the Gallows continued as normal following the chantry service. Despite the supposedly joyous holiday, tensions between the templars and their charges were no more reduced when the mages were escorted back to their living quarters.

Duties resumed the following day. Cullen’s assignment found his squad stationed at various locations in the Apprentice training halls on the second floor of the gallows. More than one templar had no doubt found themselves falling asleep listening to the dull drone of magical theory that meant little to them. Cullen had long since elected to patrol through each training hall to ensure his squad remained alert throughout the hours of the lessons. It had the added benefit of disguising the occasional flinch at an unexpected flash of magic and tingle of expended mana as an apprentice practiced an offensive spell. The freedom to pace each expansive hall instead of rooting himself to a post worked some way to relieving his tension.

Cullen paused in one of the training halls to see Samson talking idly with a mage as they observed the lessons. The mage hurried away as he saw Cullen pass through the room’s arched doorway. Samson turned to spot Cullen and gave an audible sigh. He raised a forestalling hand, “You won’t say anything I haven’t heard from Meredith. The mages are not our friends, they’re our charges.” He repeated in a poor imitation of the Knight-Commander’s clipped tones.

“I see now why the Knight-Commander had you assigned to the Gallows courtyard.”

“I’ll say the same thing that got me demoted. The mages won’t trust us if they see us as their jailers.”

“They don’t have to trust us. We do our duty regardless of how they feel.”

“That may be right, Ser, but trust certainly helps us do that duty.”

Cullen contemplated that thought as he stood watch with Samson for a moment. The man kept his gaze studiously on the lesson in progress, watching as an apprentice practiced fireballs within a protective magical shield held by an enchanter. The apprentices ignored their watchers, well accustomed to living under the gaze of armed templars. Cullen had once trusted mages. Whatever Samson claimed, trusting them would do no good at all. It had certainly not helped in Kinloch Hold.

Samson interrupted his grim thoughts with a question, “So, Ser, have you been assigned to the daily boredom of Circle life since your initiation?”

“I trained in Denerim and was assigned to Kinloch Hold after I took my vows. Then I was transferred to Greenfell village by my Knight-Commander.” He paused for a moment, lost in thought, “The Revered Mother decided that life there … did not agree with me. Knight-Commander Greagoir requested my transfer to Kirkwall instead,” he said dryly to lighten the reality of the rather uncomfortable weeks he had spent there. Greenfell's monastery had been a retirement location for older templars in all but name. A step below the dedicated facilities in Val Royeaux, but that hadn't changed the fact. Knight-Commander Greagoir had thought that being away from Kinloch Hold would help ‘level him out’. In hindsight, it had become apparent that Cullen’s new-found intensity and zeal had not been compatible with the leisurely pace of the monastery. A week after his return to Kinloch Hold, he had been sent to Kirkwall. Greagoir had washed his hands of responsibility.

Samson laughed at the flash of personality. “All that peace and quiet no good for you, huh? No duties but following the Chantry mother when she goes for a walk. I’d be happy with a comfortable position like that.”

The professional mask drew back down. Cullen turned to look at Samson seriously. “I can do more to help protect people against the dangers of magic here, in a Circle.”

Samson sighed. “You sound like Meredith.”

Cullen frowned. He failed to see the negative in the comment. “I've seen the dangers. They were blind to it in Kinloch Hold until it was too late.”

A sudden shout of panic sent a rush of adrenaline through Cullen’s veins. The practicing apprentice flew backwards, tumbling into the benches behind her as she lost control of her emerging fireball. The fireball blossomed into a crackling sphere larger than her head and blasted through the barrier held by the enchanter. It impacted the wall, searing the enchanter as it passed within a hairsbreadth of her head.

Through memories of the grating crackle of a Rage demon’s laughter, Cullen called the lyrium in his blood to enforce a heavy denial of magic. The watching apprentices staggered as its influence hit them, stifling their mana. The blade that had somehow leapt into his hand pulsed with white energy as the templar’s power was conducted through the lyrium-infused steel of the blade.

Somehow, through a haze of memory, he managed to call out for the templars stationed in the corridor to summon a healer and water for the lingering flames. Finally, Samson reacted, rushing to aid the unconscious apprentice as Cullen directed the arriving templars. He was not aware that he still held on to his sword and the denial of magic until Samson grabbed his shoulder.

“Let go, Ser, the danger is past. The healer can’t help until you let him.”

Cullen jerked and sheathed the sword as he finally noticed the naked blade clenched in his gauntlet. A healer stood uncertainly in the room’s doorway, glancing from the templars on either side of him to the fallen apprentice and Enchanter. A sudden ache flared behind his temples and the incessant tension in his shoulders tightened as new instincts warred with old. Unconsciously, a shaking hand reached up to rub his temple, meeting the solid metal of his helm. He indicated the chaos in the training hall with insistent gestures and whispered with a note of barely contained panic.

“Magic could cause even more damage. Don’t tell me you’re blind to the danger too, Samson. The apprentice did this by accident. Who knows what harm she could cause if she decides to turn against us.”

“It was an innocent mistake, and she’s just a girl. Ser,” Samson insisted, skirting the very edges of proper deference.

“She’s not a girl. She’s a mage.” The crackle of flames still lingered in his ears. “There is danger and risk in everything they do, and it is our duty to always watch, to always protect.”

“And that’s exactly what we’re doing,” Samson said placatingly as he laid a tentative hand on Cullen's shoulder, “Now the healer does his job.”

Cullen removed his helm in an attempt to relieve the tightness in his chest and ran gauntleted fingers through his damp hair. “Of course.” Despite his screaming instincts, he released the denial. He clamped down on the fear until his voice could emerge with a even calm he didn’t truly feel. “Continue, Enchanter.”

The wide-eyed healer cautiously squeezed past the templars to tend to the injured enchanter and unconscious apprentice. When Cullen’s racing heart finally calmed, he dismissed the waiting templars back to their posts. With the looming watchers gone, the healer seemed to ease up enough to ask Samson and Cullen for help in lifting the injured enchanter. Gentle pulses of magic slowly reduced the livid brightness of the burnt skin — their healing effect inversely proportional to Cullen's building anxiety — until only a faint mark remained. He was infinitely grateful when the healer finished.

“That’s what apprentices are here for,” the healer seemed to admonish both the woozy apprentice and the templars as he worked. “To learn the control needed to safely use their powers. The templars are here to make sure nothing goes wrong while you learn.”

The enchanter was in no shape to continue the lesson. Once the unfortunate apprentice was able to stand, she and the others were escorted back to the apprentice dormitory by their ever-watchful templar guardians. As they walked, Cullen couldn't help but overhear the muted sobs of the hapless apprentice as she whispered her fear of being punished with tranquility.

“Tranquility is only for those who pose a danger to themselves and others, apprentice, or those who choose not to undertake the Harrowing.” Cullen interjected coldly. The apprentices exchanged dread-filled incredulous glances. “Prove you can control your power and you have nothing to fear.”

The crackle of flames had almost disappeared from Cullen’s mind in the buzz of activity that followed as he arranged for the training hall to be reordered and as reports of the event were written. It was with some dread that he fell into a fitful sleep many hours later to the sound of Samson’s gentle snores.

~~~~

It was difficult to breathe in the dull purple gleam of the confined enclosure. In the unchanging glow, there was no distinction to be had between night and day. Time was marked mainly by the pitiful screams of the unwilling mages dragged into the harrowing chamber. Or worse, by the muted thump as another body drained of blood was dumped on the growing piles by the walls. Time slipped past both painfully slowly and impossibly quickly in the crushing confines of the magical barrier. Cullen hardly knew if he slept at all, or if he merely lapsed into unconsciousness. Food and water were provided intermittently at best. Cullen blinked slowly at the water bowl Uldred had slid through the barrier. Had that been just minutes ago, an hour, yesterday? The mage had kicked the bowl in none too gently and half the liquid had slopped onto the flagstones before coming to a rest against the kneeling templar's foot. That the spilled water had now dried up spoke to it having been some time. He unclasped his hands and reached down for the water bowl to quench his painful thirst. The movement awoke a crippling pain in his head. He took one slow sip. The cool liquid left him more parched than before.

A fiery stream of pain tore from his head to pool in his gut and sent the bowl slipping from suddenly cold fingers to spin across the floor. It came to rest against the barrier, contents mixing with the slimy residue that seemed to be growing from the flagstones. Across the antechamber, Farris jerked awake and began to weep brokenly again over the twisted and bloodied form of Annlise. Cullen squeezed his eyes shut. He began whispering the chant but stumbled to a halt, where had he left off?

The sound of tortured wailing from the harrowing chamber tapered out, much to Cullen’s gratitude. That was quickly drowned out by dread as the chamber’s door creaked open and Uldred strolled out. An inane thought drifted through the haze that filled Cullen’s mind. How do his robes stay clean from all the blood? Close on his heels followed the limping form of Ser Beval. Cullen had shouted, pleaded and finally begged Beval not to submit to the offers of the demon that had tempted him. To no avail. When his voice finally broke, there was nothing of his friend left behind blank eyes. Now the glazed look and dull smile were unchanged since he had succumbed to the Desire demon who knows how many days past. The towering form of an arcane horror followed behind them, and Cullen shuddered.

“I have tired of having this templar wait on me, and his blood grows thin,” sighed Uldred, “Our young templar could surely do with a little companionship like Farris over there.”

The arcane horror glided closer to the armoured form of Beval and a lambent spike of energy materialised in its hand.

Cullen stumbled to his feet, “No!”

He tried desperately to call the lyrium again, but its song had fallen to a whisper. He pounded feebly on the glowing barrier. Beval fell limply to the floor in a clatter of plate armour, pierced through the heart by the sorcerous blade. In that brief moment as a thin stream of blood marred his chest plate, his eyes cleared and met Cullen’s with a pleading and accusing glare.

Cullen fell to his knees weakly, “No…”

The arcane horror kicked the body unceremoniously through the barrier to lie in a twisted heap. A trickle of blood wound across the flagstones to soak into Cullen’s robes and stain the steel of his boots.

Uldred tapped a finger on his chin thoughtfully. “You appear to be a little under the weather.”

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a vial that gleamed with a familiar pure blue. Lyrium, at the concentrated strength suitable for a templar, rather than the dilute potion used by mages. Cullen’s thirst rose to a fever pitch and with horror he felt a desperate need rise in his mind.

“I hear lyrium withdrawal is terribly painful. Word is that it can kill a templar if they go too long without.”

Lyrium withdrawal. They had all been warned of the importance of keeping doses regular. With a shudder, he realised that these first signs meant he must have been here more than a week, perhaps longer. No one was going to save them. Surely even a Right of Annulment could not take so long to be approved by the Grand Cleric in the Denerim chantry. Cullen pulled in another laboured breath in the thin air of the shielded enclosure.

Uldred smiled deceptively gently and let the vial slip from his fingers. The brittle glass shattered on the flagstones and the pure blue liquid drained away into the gaps between the flagstones. Across the room, Farris began to pound on the barrier with wordless cries.

“Leave me. Please,” whispered Cullen.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. You’re the only one of your fellows left that can actually hold a conversation. It will be fun watching you break. Your friends were much too easy.” Uldred glanced over his shoulder. “Speaking of friends, I believe there’s someone who would like to say hello.”

Another mage strode down the stairs from the harrowing chamber with an ugly smile twisting his face. Cullen had attended Tyarl’s harrowing. He had played chess with the young mage. They had laughed together when Cullen expressed surprise at almost being beaten. They had spoken once of Tyarl’s difficult life in the Denerim alienage before being brought to the Circle Tower. He had seemed content. Hours or perhaps days previously, a pleading Tyarl had been dragged into the harrowing chamber. Now there was little of the calm demeanour the elf had once exhibited.

The mage crouched to bring his eyes level with Cullen’s and a sneer twisted his face. “Templar filth.” He spat, “I have been trapped in this tower for twelve years by you and your sanctimonious chantry.” Cullen met the molten eyes of a rage demon’s glare. “You deny us the power every mage dreams to hold. The power we deserve to hold.” The abomination stood with flames licking around its feet. “I hope you suffer before Uldred lets you rot with your friends.”

Cullen woke with a gasp, finally succeeding in pulling on the lyrium singing in his blood to enforce a powerful denial of magic. _Maker preserve me against demons and blood magic._

Samson shot out of his bed with a muffled oath, “Andraste’s flaming sword! What’s happening?” He heard the door to the adjacent room being thrown open and murmurs of confusion.

Samson held up a hand, “You wait there.”

Dim torchlight from the corridor illuminated the chamber as Samson left to speak to the confused residents of the adjacent room. As his breath began to calm he dropped the denial of magic. There was no danger here. No demons. No abominations. He heard Samson’s reassurances through the partially open door.

“Sorry about that. Just uh... testing your reaction time.”

Their neighbours grumbled but returned to their quarters without any further complaints. Samson eased back into the room and closed the door with an irritated slam that rattled the shelves. The mix of anger and confusion in his face was clearly visible in the dim light of a lone glowstone.

“Maker’s breath, boy! I've done my best to respect your privacy and ignore the shouting you do in your sleep. But this is getting dangerous. Andraste preserve us all if you call a smite down on my head while I sleep.” Samson scrubbed his face with a hand, “You flinch whenever a mage casts a spell. You watch every shadow and corner like a demon’s about to crawl out of it. What in the void happened to you in Ferelden?”

Cullen’s mind was too foggy to register the insubordinate demand.

“I look into their eyes and all I can see are demons looking back….” He whispered.

Samson sat on his bed with a tired exhale, “The rumours we heard from Kinloch Hold were bad enough. A Circle hasn't broken like that in Ages. Clearly, you were stuck right in the middle of whatever happened. And clearly it was worse than anything I've heard if even the chantry lyrium won’t help.” He paused a moment then reached behind his bed to extract a small leather pouch that tinkled slightly as he threw it onto Cullen’s bed. “This goes against my better judgement, but here, take it. A few extra lyrium rations to help you drown out the nightmares.”

Cullen recoiled slightly at the sight of the faint blue glow leaking from the partially open neck of the pouch.

“No. I can’t.”

That soothing blue woke a confused mix of disgust and quickly suppressed desire. He had known some templars that revelled in the power and strength lyrium gave them, in the feelings of clarity and invincibility it could engender. Others gave in to the temptation of using it as a crutch, dampening all feeling, all emotion, until only crystalline clarity was left. That was a shameful weakness he had briefly fallen prey to in Greenfell. But to him now, it could be nothing more than a weapon like his sword. Easy to abuse, it must be treated and used with respect.

“Believe me, it helps.” Samson shook his head slowly, “No one wants to face the memory of demons and abominations in their sleep. Seems like you have more than your fair share of those memories.”

“Lyrium is just a tool to help us serve. I can endure whatever suffering that I must.”

Samson raised an eyebrow, “You know what the Chantry’s lyrium will do to us all eventually. Let me tell you something else. One day you’ll wake in your cosy little bed in the Circle thirsty in a way that couldn't be solved by drinking the whole of the Waking Sea. You’ll drink what they give you each day. And each day that itching behind your eyes and pain in your belly will come a little sooner. Each day it’ll be a little harder to last until your next drink of blue. The Chantry uses that to control us. Why not take it into your own hands instead?”

“I am not an addict,” Cullen said with disgust and tinge of suppressed horror that the man could be right. He had no doubt that Samson recognised the implication. The other man didn't seem at all offended by the unspoken words.

“We all are. We all have been since that first taste.” Samson smiled sadly. He reached over to reclaim the pouch from Cullen’s bed, “For all your seriousness, you seem like a good man, Cullen. Maker knows why you were sent here. You belong somewhere better than serving in this Maker-forsaken Circle.”

~~~~

The atmosphere amongst the templars in the following weeks was subdued. News from Ferelden had become increasingly sporadic, but what little did arrive was grim. The darkspawn continued their proliferation northwards uninterrupted whilst the country teetered on the brink of a civil war. Meanwhile, traders from Orzammar told stories of chaos in the line of succession for the dwarven king. They didn't dare speak it in front of their superiors, but the templars worried what the chaos would mean for the continued supply of lyrium.

He was distracted enough during his assigned patrol the following morning that it drew Samson out of his silence. Although Cullen had learned the layout of the Gallows following two months of pacing its corridors, Samson had not yet been reassigned, to the man’s pleasure. However, despite the shared quarters and regular patrol assignments, there was clearly still some distrust from the older templar, as though he was trying the measure Cullen’s actions against expectations

“Nice to see that you’re not trying to watch every corner at the same time today, Ser.”

Cullen startled out of his thoughts with a reproachful glare for Samson, “I'm well aware of my duty.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise, Knight-Corporal.” He responded sardonically.

They patrolled silently through a few further corridors, feigning ignorance when a trio of mages eyed them resentfully and stopped their conversation while the templars passed. The sixth sense that every templar seemed to develop told him that their eyes continued to bore into his back as he and Samson patrolled onwards.

Despite his intention of focusing only on his duties, Cullen found his thoughts returning to the Darkspawn threat. Ferelden’s circle had been decimated. It seemed folly to assume two Grey Wardens could stop an army of darkspawn without the circle’s support, let alone an archdemon. His mind shied away from thoughts of the once-circle-mage Grey Warden who had freed the tower and the sickening memories it awoke. Opposing thoughts left his mind whirling and he clung desperately to the soothing song of the lyrium that hummed in his blood. He suppressed the thoughts with an effort and was left with one lingering worry. _Grey Warden or not, she is a mage, was it right to trust her?_

In his distraction, he failed to see a young apprentice come hurtling out of a doorway. The apprentice ran straight into the unyielding metal of his greaves, the impact barely softened by Cullen’s swirling robes. The apprentice could hardly have been more than ten, and yet his face as he looked up at the pair of templars looming over him was frozen in fear. Instinctively, Cullen reached down with a gauntleted hand to help the young apprentice up. The boy almost flinched before allowing himself to be pulled back to a standing position. He stuttered an apology, his eyes wide as he backed away.

“You must return to your lessons, Apprentice. You should not be wandering the corridors at this time of day. I will escort you.”

Even through the concealing metal of their helms, Cullen could feel the weary look given to him by Samson, “I’m sure he can find his own way, Ser.”

Cullen was spared from further dilemma at the sight of a harried Enchanter scurrying through the doorway from which the apprentice had appeared. She gathered the boy protectively in her arms and backed away with a tense bow, “My deepest apologies, Sers. The boy doesn’t have a very good head for directions.”

Cullen struggled to form a response and swung between the simple polite reply he may have once given and the admonishment no doubt expected from a Templar Knight-Corporal. Noting Cullen’s hesitation, Samson placed a forestalling hand on his arm, “Not a problem, Enchanter.”

As the pair disappeared around the corner, Samson released a sigh, “I suppose scaring apprentices half to death is an unavoidable part of being a templar.” He paused, “If I may, Ser, more than one templar I know has hit apprentices for things like that. I'm glad to see that you aren't one of them.”

That startled Cullen with a flicker of disgusted shock, “Actions like that are a disgrace to the Order.” Whatever distrust he might have for mages and magic, such abuse was inexcusable.

“That they are,” agreed Samson darkly.

The remainder of the patrol passed much as any other had. But the tension that haunted Cullen’s every step in the Gallows was now tinged with an additional hint of shame that some in the order could so fail in their duty as protectors. The circle was a haven for magic users, a place where they could be kept safely isolated from the public. Where they could be watched for signs of corruption. A mage would be dangerous, regardless of age, if they became possessed or used blood magic. A templar’s duty was clear at that point. Contain or kill the mage in question to prevent casualties. But casual abuse was wholly unjustifiable. _Is this common in Kirkwall?_ he wondered. Surely the mages would report such abuses.

Cullen’s dreams that night were plagued by a new enemy. Templar armour twisted and buckled as the clean lines of the sword and flames etched on the breastplate warped into nauseating new shapes. He awoke feeling frozen to the bone, as if he had spent the night in the peaks of the Frostbacks rather than the humid warmth of Kirkwall.

Dawn found him kneeling in the peace of the chantry, reciting the fourth stanza of the Canticle of Benedictions, so integral to the templars, over and over until the lines burned in his mind. The fear that he would falter or fail in his duty as a peacekeeper tormented him even through the crystalline certainty of lyrium.

His prayers were disturbed by the metallic sounds of templar salutes. He drew himself up in time to see the Knight-Commander marching into the chantry chapel, torchlight glinting off the hard planes of her armour. She drew to a halt in front of Cullen where he stood to attention.

“Knight-Corporal Cullen, a word if I may.” She led them from the chapel back into the gloomy corridors of Templar Hall. “How are you finding your time in Kirkwall?”

Cullen, uncertain of where the conversation would lead, dared answer only with a simple statement, “Kirkwall is certainly different. The challenges here are greater than my limited experience at Kinloch Hold.” He paused, “I hope I’ve been serving well since my arrival?”

She continued as though Cullen hadn’t responded, “Samson tells me you will often be found in the chapel at dawn. Too few of the templars show the appropriate level of devotion to the Maker. Your Knight-Lieutenant also tells me that you show extraordinary dedication to your duties. It is an example I wish more would follow. Many serve only for themselves or fail to realise our true responsibilities.” The Knight-Commander indicated the greatsword at her back, armed even in the safety of Templar Hall, “This is our burden, Cullen. Constant vigilance, even when all would appear secure.” She smiled grimly. “We protect people time and again, and they will not thank us. This is the sacrifice each of us makes on joining the order.” She stopped in the corridor and turned to face Cullen, “Tell me, Cullen. What do _you_ see as our duty?”

Cullen paused a moment to draw his thoughts together, “I joined the templars because I could think of no better cause than to protect those who need it. Kinloch Hold showed me the importance of that cause.” Cullen met the Knight-Commander’s icy gaze and shuddered as he dared to admit his shame, “I have nightmares of the horrors that demons and blood mages are capable of. I am willing to make whatever sacrifices are necessary to ensure no more lives are lost and that no one ever suffers as I have. I will protect people, mage or otherwise, from the dangers of magic.”

“And if a mage cannot be saved from themselves?”

Cullen didn’t hesitate, “I will fulfil my duty.”

Meredith nodded approvingly and continued down the corridor, “Knight-Captain Harmoran believes it is better to coddle you, but I believe your experience at Kinloch Hold is your strength, not a weakness. The order needs templars like you who sincerely understand that our duty is not power, but service, whatever the cost to ourselves. Knight-Corporal Cullen, I am promoting you to the position of Knight-Lieutenant. Effective immediately, you will serve as my adjutant in the Gallows.”

Cullen stopped in shock. There were countless other templars with the age and experience to make them worthy of promotion over him. “Knight-Commander, I cannot take a position I have not earned.”

The Knight-Commander turned back to him, “You have proven your dedication to Andraste and the order. Now you have the opportunity to better serve. I have no doubt you will rise to the occasion.” She saluted, “Good day, Knight-Lieutenant.”


	4. Escaping the Gallows

**Guardian 9:31 Dragon**

“Am I or am I not the Knight-Commander of this Circle?” the thunderous anger in Knight-Commander Meredith’s voice cut straight through the thick wood of the door and echoed down the hallway.

The First Enchanter voice was equally full of anger as he responded. “You cannot take what little freedom we have and expect us to be content. What you propose makes us prisoners in body as well as spirit.”

A third voice, quieter than Orsino and the Knight-Commander, was no doubt the Knight-Captain. Cullen’s experience of staff meetings over the past two months seemed to show that Knight-Captain Harmoran had been relegated to the position of peacekeeper. Judging by the tone of the argument, it was becoming less and less effective.

The templar stationed by Knight-Commander Meredith’s office saluted as Cullen walked past. He sighed as he realised it was now inevitable that word of yet another argument between the Knight-Commander and Orsino would be the talk of the barracks by the end of the day. It did little to ease tensions. Following his promotion and assignment as adjutant to the Knight-Commander, much of his work seemed to be managing the disputes that broke out as relationships became increasingly strained. The position seemed to keep him busier than he had been even with the additional patrols he had volunteered for as Knight-Corporal. It was satisfying to be recognised as an effective mediator and problem solver rather than the burden he had feared he would be given his youth. But it would certainly be better if there were no problems to solve.

The door to the Knight-Commander’s office was thrown open as the First Enchanter walked out. The templar guard studiously turned his gaze away as if he had not been listening to every word of the argument. Fury was clear in every line of Orsino’s posture. Had it been any other mage, Cullen would have been preparing himself to prevent a magical attack.

Orsino’s eyes narrowed as his gaze passed over Cullen where he waited, “Ah. Meredith’s lackey. It’s too much to hope that you might talk some sense into her.”

“She does what she must to protect us all. You would do well to remember that, First Enchanter.” The benefit of a few month allowed him to keep calm control over his voice.

“This vaunted protection of yours makes you into nothing more than jailors.”

“I follow my Knight-Commander’s orders, First Enchanter.” It had become a regular exchange between the two on Cullen’s frequent visits to the Knight-Commander’s office.

Orsino laughed bitterly and returned to his office with stooped shoulders.

Knight-Captain Harmoran followed close behind looking drained. He nodded in acknowledgement of Cullen as he walked down the hallway to his own office. Recent months had weighed heavily on the Knight-Captain. The unexpected beaching of a Qunari dreadnaught on the nearby coast a month ago had sent a shock of tension through the entire city. The weight of history made them an unwelcome sight to some, even after they had been peacefully settled in a compound near the docks. Incessant friction between the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander only added to his responsibilities.

The Knight-Commander appeared in the doorway to her office, “Ah. Cullen. Come in.” There was little evidence in her voice of her rage at Orsino.

She paced behind her desk as Cullen entered the office. “The mages resist me at every turn. I pray to Andraste each day for the strength needed to face their lack of cooperation.” She pulled a report from a stack of papers on her desk and handed it over to him, “I’m afraid I must burden you further, Cullen. You have no doubt heard that a mage escaped from the Gallows the night before last. I need a Lieutenant with an appropriate level of discretion to lead a squad and recover the apostate. I want him alive for questioning.”

The previous day, a mage had been found missing from his quarters in the Gallows. It was the third such event in the past month, and the Knight-Commander had been livid.

“Of course, Knight-Commander.” Cullen could guess why one of the other Knight-Lieutenants hadn't been chosen. Alrik and Karras were of similar minds and lacked any subtlety. He had the sneaking suspicion that any apostates they captured would ‘accidently’ end up dead, regardless of what the Knight-Commander ordered. There was a line between enthusiasm and violence that the two often ignored. The Knight-Commander hadn't yet seen fit to reprimand them. No doubt she had her reasons. The remainder were otherwise occupied, be it with recruit training or duties in the circle. The order was stretched, particularly after the Knight-Commander’s recent increase in restrictions on the mages.

“I trust you will not fail me in this, Cullen. The sooner we find out how these mages are escaping, the better. You may requisition whatever resources you find necessary.” She nodded a dismissal, “Good day, Knight-Lieutenant.”

Cullen knocked on Orsino’s door across the hallway and entered the small office. The First Enchanter stood looking dejectedly out of the office’s narrow window. He turned as Cullen entered.

“At least you have the decency to knock. Have you come to inform me of yet another restriction on our freedoms? Perhaps we are to be banned from using the restrooms without a templar escort now?”

“Andraste preserve me, that’s hardly necessary. You don’t need a templar to hold your hand.” Cullen couldn’t help the burst of irritation at the man’s petulance. “I need your assistance to enter the phylactery chamber, First Enchanter.”

Orsino laughed without much humour, “Ah, one of the rare times when anyone feels the need to consult me.”

Cullen had been shown the Phylactery chamber soon after his promotion to Knight-Lieutenant. The cavernous room lay underground, accessible only from the bowels of Templar Hall. In Ferelden, only an apprentice’s phylactery had been stored in the circle. All others, from lowly mages to the senior enchanters, had been stored in Denerim. But there was no location in Kirkwall more secure than the heart of templar power in the Free Marches.

Cullen escorted Orsino through the corridors of Templar Hall and down heavily guarded stairs into the depths of the building. His shoulders itched with the familiar feeling of eyes at his back. The First Enchanter was not a welcome sight to many in the Kirkwall order. It was a sharp contrast to his time in Kinloch Hold.

“Tell me, Knight-Lieutenant,” began Orsino, “Do you believe in Meredith’s actions?”

Cullen eyed the First Enchanter dubiously. “Surely you know my answer.”

“I suppose I do,” he sighed, “I still hold out hope for a more enlightened presence in the templars. What does it take for you to trust us?”

“Trust? I’ve seen the dangers of being too trusting, First Enchanter. Even you could fall to possession or blood magic.”

“Isn't the Harrowing supposed to prove us resistant to that temptation?”

“Mages still fall to the temptation of power. If the price of preventing tragedy is an increase in vigilance and restrictions, so be it.”

Cullen’s mind passed briefly over the reports he had passed on to the Knight-Commander. Signs of blood magic use in Lowtown and Darktown. An abomination that had killed ten people. It felt wrong to be thankful that it had only been ten. The Knight-Commander’s increase in restrictions was the only reasonable response.

“Mages are not your enemies. For every one that falls, there are countless more who could help society.”

The benefit of time and five months of hectic activity in the Gallows had gone a way to dulling the intensity of Cullen’s memories. They no longer haunted his every waking moment, but Orsino’s words pulled those memories to the forefront of his mind. The sentiment and fear they had shaped remained as powerful as before.

Cullen rounded on Orsino and his control slipped for a moment, “Even one blood mage or abomination could do incalculable damage. The templars have a duty, First Enchanter! We will protect you from yourselves, whether you are willing or not.”

“I see you are no different to Meredith,” sighed Orsino defeatedly.

Cullen calmed his suddenly elevated breathing. Control.

“Have you ever faced an abomination, Orsino?”

“I have not.”

“Be glad that the templars keep it that way.”

“There are other dangers we face, in the fade and the mundane world. Your order is hardly a beacon of virtue. But I wouldn't expect you to listen where others have not.”

Cullen looked askance at Orsino, “What do you mean?”

“You’re young, but you can’t be that naïve. There are always those who will always abuse the people in their power.”

That silenced Cullen. He recalled the comment made by Samson on a previous patrol. His surprise and pleasure that Cullen hadn’t hit the young apprentice. And more recently, the reluctance of some templars to admit the reasons for conflicts when confronted.

“No. I can’t believe that. The order is better than that. There must be a reason.” He could not face the thought that the order might falter in its duty. Faith was the only thing that he could hold onto when the nightmares came.

Orsino said nothing in response, only gave him a suddenly sympathetic smile.

A broad carved doorway guarded by templars in full plate armour marked their arrival at the phylactery chamber’s entrance. Cullen laid his hand on the plate by the door and briefly channelled a pulse of power through his skin. The plate glowed faintly and gave off a faint chime, echoed by the plate under Orsino’s hand. The chamber’s doors smoothly swung open to reveal the cavernous phylactery chamber. Row upon row of shelves lined the room. The only source of illumination was the dim red glow of the vials stored there. It cast the room in an eerie light that left the ceiling shadowed and unseen. In front of each vial, a neat label marked the name, details, and description of the mage to which it corresponded in a neat cypher. Cullen wandered through the shelves until he reached the location marked under the apostate’s details in the report. Unlike the other vials on the shelf, its contents barely cast any light. It seemed possible that the mage had fled the city altogether. It was a sensible decision when a mage knew their phylactery could still be used. He had been told that there were countless caves around Sundermount that would be ideal for a mage trying to seek shelter. At least Kirkwall benefited from a coastal location, there were only so many directions to flee over land. He could only hope that the mage hadn’t found funds to take a ship.

“Thank you, First Enchanter.” He said, as he left the chamber to the sound of the heavy doors swinging shut, “Allow me to escort you back to your office.”

It was easier to return to duty and professional courtesy than it was to face the dilemmas raised by Orsino’s bitter accusation.

~~~~

On returning to the ground level of the Gallows, Cullen immediately began the task of organising a squad of templars to hunt the apostate. Speed was of the essence with each hour increasing the difficulty of tracking him. There were countless small administrative tasks that swirled through Cullen’s head as he prepared. He temporarily transferred Ser Thrask’s squad to his command as one of the few available for discretionary duty with experience hunting apostates and retrieving mages. A single templar was dispatched to ride around the perimeter of city with the phylactery in an attempt to identify the direction that the apostate had taken. Word quickly returned that, as expected, the phylactery indicated that the mage had travelled north towards Sundermount.

Given the location, Cullen dug out a map to calculate the likely time that it would take to hunt the apostate. It would certainly be embarrassing if, on his first time leading an extended assignment, they returned empty-handed after running short on lyrium or other necessary supplies. In the brightening mid-morning light, he scribbled off requisitions for horses and sufficient quantities of lyrium and provisions for no more than three days outside the city. The mage had a day’s head start, but mounted templars could quickly catch a man on foot.

The pressure of the task ahead of him weighed on his shoulders. Until now, his duties had been administrative and minor command roles in circle duties. Assignments outside the circle could be led only by senior officers and were exclusively manned by experienced templars. Cullen’s duties in both Kinloch Hold and the Gallows had kept him in the confines of the circle. It was a daunting task, and he felt painfully aware of his youth and inexperience.

By late morning he believed he had prepared as best as possible. A small locked chest of lyrium vials was delivered to his office half an hour after his requisition forms were sent out. The chest settled in his pack alongside his lyrium kit and provisions as he led the squad across the Gallows courtyard to the docks.

His uncertainty continued unabated as they were ferried across the harbour to Kirkwall proper. The remainder of the squad laughed and joked. But Cullen found himself planning and rehearsing eventualities. The need to bring the apostate in alive weighed heavily against the possibility that he might resort to blood magic or make a deal with a demon in order to escape.

Thrask wandered across the boat to seat himself next to Cullen.

“Our orders are to bring the mage in alive, Knight-Lieutenant?”

Cullen glanced distractedly over at the older templar and nodded, “The Knight-Commander needs to question him.”

“You’re lucky to have me here, Ser,” he remarked, “Others might not be so willing to capture a fleeing mage.”

“I’ll have to defer to your experience. My fear is that the apostate may resort to forbidden magic to escape.”

“Many do when they believe they are trapped.” He paused. “Allow me to make a suggestion if I may, Knight-Lieutenant. A single unarmed templar appears less of a threat than a full squad. Perhaps I might be able to draw the mage out and convince him to return peacefully.”

“That puts you at risk.” Cullen frowned. “I had thought a rapid assault to take the apostate by surprise might be a reasonable course of action.”

Thrask acknowledged the possibility, “It might. I’m willing to shoulder the risk. If I fail, that would be your best course of action.”

Cullen was grateful for the subtle advice from the more experienced templar, “Thank you, Ser Thrask. I’ll take it under advisement.”

He quirked a smile, “Of course, Knight-Lieutenant.”

Cullen’s gaze was drawn to the approaching sprawl of Kirkwall. Although he had seen parts of Denerim in his time training in the chantry as an initiate, Kirkwall seemed to dwarf Ferelden’s capital. Countless multi-storey sandstone buildings crowded up to the very edges of the bay and climbed up the cliffs to the colossal mansions of Hightown. The city’s chantry and the Viscount’s Keep topped the jet cliffs with a matched set of towers. It was an imposing sight for someone raised on the outskirts of a village and used to the isolation of Kinloch Hold.

The ferry’s arrival in the Kirkwall’s docks was met with a handful of curious glances but business otherwise continued as usual. As the nexus of trade between the Free Marches and Fereldan, the wharves bustled with activity and were crowded with towering piles of cargo being loaded and unloaded. Countless ships lay berthed at quays along the full length of the docks and anchored out in the bay with a riot of colourful banners and furled sails. Despite the constant activity, the dockworkers kept a respectful distance from the templars without ever seeming to make eye contact or acknowledge their presence.

A chantry brother beckoned them over to a relatively peaceful corner of the docks opposite the ferry’s jetty.

“Your horses and provisions are waiting at the north gate. Maker guide you.”

They wound through the twisted Kirkwall streets, crowds parting around them as they marched. Gradually, the city’s outskirts became apparent as buildings shrank from multiple storeys to only one or two. Another brother waited for them at the chantry waystation with horses saddled and prepared for their arrival. The north gate itself seemed to be more ceremonial than anything else. A pair of carved statues matching the soaring Twins of Kirkwall flanked the wide archway out into the sandy plains surrounding the city.

The group rode quickly through the sandy slopes and into the broken hills that rose gently towards the Vimmark mountain range. Sundermount itself dominated the skyline with a peak that scraped the high cloud cover above. The glow of the phylactery steadily increased as they rode and by early evening, they had reached the foot of Sundermount. The rapidly darkening sky made further tracking impossible and so camp was set up in the shelter of a stony outcropping.

Despite a lessening of the incessant tension that plagued him in the Gallows, Cullen lay sleepless in the balmy Free Marches night. Giving up hope of rest, he stood watch with a succession of templars. Most seemed willing to enjoy the peace of the night-time air, but one shifted restlessly on a rock until finally he seemed to burst.

“You’re Fereldan, right, Knight-Lieutenant? Did you hear the news? The Blight has been defeated. The Grey Wardens killed the Archdemon.” The templar, a man named Faler, sighed happily as if he had suddenly become a five-year-old hearing stories of the Grey Wardens for the first time, “What I wouldn't give to have watched that.” He glanced over to where Cullen stood, “Did you see much of the Blight?”

“No one apart from the Wardens was convinced it even was a true Blight when I was there. I … stayed in the circle.”

“Oh. Right.” The templar fell suddenly silent. No doubt he and everyone else in the Gallows knew that Kinloch Hold had had plenty of problems to deal with even without an encroaching Blight. Cullen was grateful that the man knew better than to press further. The fall of a Circle was every templar’s nightmare.

Cullen took pity on him, “Are you a native Kirkwaller?”

“Kirkwaller born and bred,” he responded with renewed cheerfulness, “Terrible city, but I could never dream of living anywhere else. How do you find Kirkwall, Ser?”

“I... uh... haven’t left the Gallows since my arrival.” He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him, and he’d been so busy with duties in the Gallows.

The templar looked at Cullen incredulously, “You’ve been in Kirkwall for what, half a year, and this is the first time you’ve left the Gallows?” he shook his head ruefully, “Glad I’m not a senior officer.”

Clearly the templar felt he now had an obligation to inform Cullen of every destination in Kirkwall worth visiting. Destinations like the Hanged Man seemed to hold almost mythical status to him. The dangers of venturing near the compound of the recently arrived Qunari was listed a great length. Stories of the Blooming Rose were long and detailed enough that Cullen found himself grateful that the darkness of the night concealed his blush. The templar regaled Cullen with stories of the city for the remainder of his watch until the first hints of dawn lightened the horizon.

Every templar had their own habits when it came to preparing and ingesting their lyrium. A large portion of life spent in shared barracks removed plenty of inhibitions regarding personal privacy. Even so, lyrium was a private activity for many. Some simply turned away from the campfire as they prepared their daily draught. Others stepped away from the camp entirely, where the occasional trembling hand could be concealed. Others, such as what he had seen from Samson, drank the entire draught, whoever was watching. With the possibility of conflict against a desperate apostate, Cullen drained the entire draught rather than the half-measure to which he had adapted, although he knew he would suffer for it the following day. The glowing liquid burned away the fatigue of a sleepless night and left him with a familiar sense of strength and clarity, further reinforced by the more concentrated dose.

They broke camp quickly after a brief breakfast and rode onwards. Finally, when the landscape became too broken to proceed mounted, they left a single templar with their horses and continued on foot. The dull glow of the phylactery in its protective case suggested that the apostate lurked somewhere above in the mist-covered slopes of the mountain.

With the apostate now close, the templars no longer spoke amongst themselves. Their relaxation on the previous day’s ride was now replaced with lyrium-strengthened focus as they spread themselves along the mountain paths in the search for signs of the apostate’s route. An hour’s careful searching brought them to the remains of a makeshift camp. Damp ash nestled in the shadow of a large boulder marked the remnants of a fire that could only have been lit by magic. The phylactery’s glow was now bright enough to be visible even in the sunshine that broke through the low cloud cover.

“Probably broke camp soon after we did,” one of the templar’s suggested to Cullen, “I’d say we’re no more than three hours behind him.”

The apostate had had a head start, but it would be impossible for a man used to the inactivity of circle life to keep ahead of templars for long.

Cullen nodded an acknowledgment, “We move cautiously from here. Keep a close watch for rune traps. Do not engage the apostate if you see him, the Knight-Commander needs him alive.”

They climbed as quickly as was sensible up the steep mountain pathways, following trace signs of the apostate’s passage. A faint glitter beneath the dust on the path and hum in the air drew Cullen’s gaze. He hissed a warning and drew them to a halt. A pulse of power through the blade of his sword defused the trap with a glimmer of sparks and the charred smell of free mana. It was a sign that they were drawing closer, such magical traps rarely lasted longer than an hour.

Half an hour later, Cullen finally caught sight of a man hiking up the path ahead of them, staff in hand. He signalled his force back behind a bend in the path and turned to Thrask.

“Ser Thrask, I trust you’re able to convince the apostate to surrender peacefully as you assured me.”

“I’ll do my best, Knight-Lieutenant.”

With no easy route to cut the apostate off, Cullen had no choice but to believe that the older templar could speak convincingly.

They waited tensely for a few moments until Thrask’s return was heralded by the scuff of footsteps and the sharp impact of templar boots on stone. The apostate rounded the corner, followed closely by Thrask. On seeing the remainder of the templars, he collapsed to his knees with a bleak expression for Thrask.

“I thought you said I wouldn’t be hurt.”

“We’re here to return you to the Circle,” responded Cullen, “As long as you continue to co-operate, no harm will come to you.”

The apostate could gather no response through his muted sobs.

Cullen clasped a hand to the man’s shoulder and mustered a pulse of power to purge the apostate’s mana. The man wavered slightly as he was pulled to his feet and clung onto his staff for balance. Without mana, it was nothing more than an elaborately carved piece of wood.

The descent back down the mountain paths was slow. Surrounded by a loose ring of templars, the apostate stumbled constantly, his wooziness a combination of two days on the run and a complete loss of mana. His escorts occasionally hauled him to his feet, none too gently, when he fell to his knees.

By noon, they had reached their horses and mounted quickly to return to Kirkwall with their captive. The ride back was as silent as their descent down the mountain. Although the apostate seemed resigned to his fate, the templar’s watch on him did not waver, reinforced as it was by the mental focus for which they were trained. The march through Kirkwall in the early evening light was tense. Citizens had respectfully ignored the templars when they had left the city, but now, escorting an apostate mage, there was an equal mix of unfriendly glances for both the apostate and his escort. Cullen ordered his templars to close ranks around the apostate as a particularly angry-looking group muttered and fingered their daggers with hostile glances for the mage. Whatever their intentions, the group was clearly unwilling to risk a fight with templars and faded back into the crowded streets.

On their return to the Gallows, the apostate was immediately taken to a holding cell in the Gallows. As soon as he had entered the Gallows courtyard he had fallen to his knees in despair and would not stand. A pair of templars had dragged him the rest of the way, watched by the curious glances of visitors and merchants.

“Thank you, Ser Thrask, for you service” Cullen said to Thrask as he dismissed the templars, “Your assistance was invaluable.”

“I serve the Order, Knight-Lieutenant.” Thrask glanced back in the direction the mage had been dragged, “I only hope that the Knight-Commander shows him some mercy.”

“Mercy?”

“He told me he only wanted to feel the wind on his face. To sleep under the stars instead of in a cell, however comfortable that cell might be.”

“The Circle is a safe haven for mages. He’d have been dead in days without our protection.”

Thrask turned to leave with a salute, “As you say, Knight-Lieutenant.”

Knight-Commander Meredith was pacing her office impatiently as Cullen arrived.

“Cullen! I hope you have news of the apostate?”

“He surrendered peacefully. He did not resort to blood magic or demons, thank the Maker.”

“Excellent,” she strode from her office, “I will question him immediately.”

Much of the Gallows had originally been intended for use as a prison before its conversion to a mage’s circle. The holding cells retained that legacy most closely with a location in the windowless heart of the building that made escape close to impossible. The templars on guard leapt to their feet, concealing playing cards and books, as Cullen and the Knight-Commander passed by. With a jangle of keys, the cell door was opened. The mage looked up from his seat on a bedroll as the Knight-Commander entered.

“Apostate.” She began without any preamble, “Reveal to me the accomplices who helped you escape and I might consider leniency.”

The man blinked in confusion, “I had no accomplices.”

“Oh? Three mages have escaped the Gallows in the past month. That can be no coincidence.”

“I was alone. Don’t you think I would have brought more people with me if I could have?”

“Perhaps they betrayed you. Perhaps you had hoped they would destroy your phylactery.”

“I’m telling the truth, there was no one else.”

Meredith sighed and began to swing the door shut. “I have no doubt that a few weeks of solitary confinement will change your story.”

“There are none,” he sobbed through the door, “Please. Believe me!”

“Perhaps he truly did work alone, Knight-Commander.”

“We will see. You will learn, Cullen, that mages can never be trusted to tell us the truth.”

Cullen nodded slowly, “Of course, Knight-Commander.”

They left the corridor to the sound of muted sobbing from the cell. _Maker give me the strength to fulfil my duties without faltering,_ Cullen prayed silently. Rebellion could not and did not deserve sympathy.

~~~~

The remainder of the week passed much as any other. The administrative tasks for which the Knight-Commander did not have time were a persistent responsibility that absorbed much of his day. But mindful of the observation made by the member of his expedition to capture the apostate, Cullen elected to lead many ventures into Kirkwall. Templars were required to retrieve two young mages recently awoken to their powers. The gratitude of one desperate family in Lowtown was a sharp contrast to the poorly-concealed hostility of another in the privileged streets of Hightown. An account from Lowtown of slavers accompanied by a mage was reported to the templars, but any evidence was long gone by the time they arrived. Despite the narrow confines of the city’s streets, he found it vastly preferable to the cramped airless corridors of the Gallows.

Cullen was grateful that Samson had made no further reference to his broken sleep. Although their regularity had faded, extended periods of time spent within the confines of the Circle’s corridors would inevitably lead to the return of the nightmares that plagued him. Most common was a recurring dream of the overlapping voices of demons whispering in his ears as he walked the passages of the circle. Locked doors in every hallway and impenetrable magical barriers at every turn.

Samson and a handful of the templars with whom he had caught the apostate stopped him one evening in the corridors of Templar Hall.

“Knight-Lieutenant, you’ve been here six months, and not once have you taken a break. You spend all your time on your duties, in the chantry, or in training sessions. I know for a fact that you didn’t do anything for First Day.  These fine templars and I have decided that you need a visit to the Hanged Man.” He paused with a sly smile, “To properly appreciate your duties to Kirkwall, of course.”

“I have duties to attend to here,” Cullen indicated the reports in his hand to hide his reluctance, “Your commanding officers don’t have any issue with you leaving the Gallows?”

“Of course not. There’s no problem with drinking in off-duty hours, as long as we don’t do it in the Gallows. Although the Knight-Corporal will have our heads if we get drunk…” One of the other templars responded, “Anyway, only recruits are restricted to the Gallows.” He paused and snickered, “The Knight-Corporal has ... another engagement of his own at a certain venue in Hightown. Perhaps you’d rather go there?”

Cullen’s face reddened with the memory of colourful stories of the Blooming Rose. “No! Thank you.” The response fell just short of a yelp, “I’d rather visit the Hanged Man.” He winced as he realised he now had little choice but to accompany them.

“Excellent.” Samson grinned, “Off we go. You can buy the first round.”

“I really do have duties to attend to here.”

“You must be off-duty by now. You can’t back out, Ser.”

The group made their way through the darkened streets of Kirkwall to the Hanged Man. Although the streets of Lowtown were peaceful enough, Cullen occasionally spotted furtive movement out of the corner of his eye. Clearly the City Guard didn’t see any need to keep the streets safe at night. The Hanged Man itself was a large building set in a prime location at the intersection of a number of streets. Even without the faint sound of music and chatter leaking into the street, the carved figure dangling over the tavern’s door made the location clear.

The remainder of the tavern’s patrons seemed unfazed by the arrival of the small group of templars as they claimed a table by the room’s edge. The barmaid bustled up within seconds of them seating themselves.

“How can I serve the fine templars of Kirkwall?”

Cullen nursed a single light ale whilst Samson and his companions downed pint after pint. Conversation wound between countless topics, and inevitably returned to Gallows gossip

“I hear the Knight-Commander is looking for a replacement for Knight-Captain Harmoran.” Mentioned Faler, teller of Blooming Rose tales, idly, “Apparently, they've been having…disagreements on Meredith’s stance on mages.”

“I hear he’ll be ‘retiring’ to serve lighter duty in the chantry,” suggested another.

The remainder of the templars at the table flicked surreptitious glances towards Cullen. He sighed. Squashing rumours occupied a not insignificant part of his time as a Knight-Lieutenant. “Nothing but barracks rumours. As far as I’m aware, the Knight-Commander has no intention of replacing Knight-Captain Harmoran in the foreseeable future.” The truth was, the Knight-Commander and Knight-Captain occasionally didn’t see eye to eye, but they were united in their desire to serve the order.

“Of course you’d say that.”

Cullen continued nursing his ale as the conversation turned to other topics. His mind turned to how he might manage to leave without causing offence. A familiar name pricked Cullen’s ears.

“What was that?”

“I said, we’ve had more news about the end of the Blight. The archdemon was killed by some mage, Warden Soran, Sureena, some elf name like that.”

“Surana.” Cullen responded automatically.

“Oh? You knew her?” said Faler significantly.

 _Maker give me strength._ Clearly there was still some lingering weakness in his subconscious. “She was a mage in Ferelden’s circle. I attended her Harrowing before she joined the Grey Wardens.” He responded as evenly as he could.

“Right.” The glances towards him were more obvious now.

Cullen decided he could bear the Hanged Man no longer. He pushed his half-full ale to one side and stood, “I’m afraid I must leave. I have duties to attend to.”

Samson gave rough salute, “Good night, Knight-Lieutenant. Feel free to join us more often. You need the break.”

With a faint feeling of relief, Cullen left the Hanged Man. The streets were as quiet as they had been earlier in the evening. The furtive movements were more obvious, but even a single templar was more than they were willing to face, especially given the reasonably obvious signs of rank.

On his return to the Gallows, Cullen buried himself in the requisitions that waited on his desk for the following day. Finally, when he could concentrate no longer, he returned silently to his shared quarters to sink into restless sleep.

~~~~

Cullen levered himself up from the floor and glanced over towards the opposite corner of the room.

“No!” He whispered in shock.

The barrier containing Farris and Annlise had disappeared. Farris’ body lay slumped lifelessly in the corner, slowly sinking into the creeping piles of rot and corpses that crowded the room. With horror, Cullen realised that while he lay unconscious, Farris had succumbed to the demon that haunted him. He felt bottomless shame at his relief that he would no longer have to listen to the broken weeping that resulted from the cold whispers of Despair.

With a shudder, he levered himself completely up and turned to kneel again facing the antechamber door. Better that than to see the broken bodies of his friends. His armour pulled heavily on his weakened and shivering body, but right now, it seemed to be the only thing keeping him whole. He could only pray for the strength to endure whatever horrors Uldred had promised. Surely the Knight-Commander would come soon.

Cullen’s body was wracked by uncontrollable shivers and he prayed for the strength to endure. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter.” He could not give in to despair, “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” he must hold faith in the duty of the order, “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood-“ he stammered to a halt as the bloodied corpses at the edges of the room drew his gaze. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and completed the final verse in a wavering voice, “In their blood… the Maker’s will is written.”

Movement at the edge of his vision drew his eyes to the corner of the room. Annlise stood, armour suddenly gleaming as brightly as if it was newly forged. She walked over to stand in front of the barrier and crouched to bring her eyes level with Cullen. She smiled softly, “You have a lovely voice. Perhaps you could sing more of the chant for me?”

Cullen jerked back in disgust, “Demon. Stay away!”

He squeezed his eyes shut and silently repeated the Canticle of Benedictions to himself. Finally, he dared open his eyes again. The room was as empty as it had been before. He had few moment’s blessed peace before a gentle whisper that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once sent shivers down his spine.

“Perhaps something else is more to your liking?”

Cullen retched weakly at the feeling of _something_ sifting through his mind. The air in front of him shimmered and a familiar delicate elven figure in circle mage robes appeared in front of the barrier. A cool hand on his cheek turned his blood to ice.

Cullen shot awake with a gasp. His heart pounded, and he clutched at the thin blanket on his bed to ground himself in reality. Quick flicks of his gaze catalogued the familiar sights of the room. Bookshelf. Armour stand. Chest. No butchered corpses. No glittering magical barrier. No background hum of mana. No distant screams mixing with the whispers of demons.

As had become habit, he glanced over to Samson’s side of the room to make sure he hadn’t disturbed the man. Confusion broke through the lingering traces of the nightmare at the sight of the empty bed. Had Samson stayed in Kirkwall all night? In six months sharing quarters, he had never known Samson to do that.

After a quick stop in the bathhouse to refresh himself, Cullen armed himself in preparation for the day ahead. He followed familiar routine, half-measure of lyrium and its familiar burn to drown the nightmare, a brief prayer in the Chantry, dawn training drills, before heading to the Knight-Commander’s office accompanied by the sound of the morning bell.

A familiar voice drifted down the corridor as he approached the Knight-Commander’s office.

“Delivering a letter is not a crime.” Came the angry voice of Samson.

“This increase in erratic behaviour cannot be tolerated in these troubling times. Perhaps you believed that this ‘love letter’ is as innocent as you claim, but am I to believe that a mage sending a secret letter is not something that should concern me? Three mages escaped from the Gallows this month. I choose not to believe in coincidence.” Knight-Commander Meredith’s cold tones cut through the closed door.

Cullen stopped in the corridor and cast a questioning glance at the templar stationed in the corridor. “What’s happening, Knight-Templar?”

“Ser Samson was arrested on his return to the Gallows last night, Knight-Lieutenant. I don’t know anything more.”

Given the templar’s proximity to the office, Cullen knew that wasn’t true. No doubt the templars stationed in this corridor were the main source of Gallows gossip, but Cullen chose not to press him further.

“I will not tolerate the presence of those who might put the circle at risk. Ser Samson, you are hereby stripped of your commission. Dishonourable discharge. This Maddox will undergo the rite of tranquillity.”

Cullen’s eyes widened in surprise. Samson was quite possibly a lyrium addict, and certainly friendlier with the mages than was appropriate. But there was a faithful templar behind his cynical attitude.

“Maddox means no harm to anyone. He passed his Harrowing. You can’t do that!”

“I am Knight-Commander. I can do whatever I feel is necessary to ensure the safety of the order and the circle.” The door was thrown open. “You are no longer welcome amongst the ranks of the Templar Order. Leave the Gallows immediately.”

The Knight-Commander spotted Cullen where he waited near the bottom of the corridor, “Knight-Lieutenant Cullen. Samson is no longer a member of the Order. Reclaim his equipment and ensure he leaves the Gallows.”

Samson left the Knight-Commander’s office with a stunned look on his face.

“I can’t believe this. I gave my life to the Order, and this is my reward?”

The door swung shut with crisp finality behind him.

“Allow me to escort you, Samson.” As had become habit, Cullen hid his reaction behind calm professionalism.

Samson shot a disgusted glance at Cullen, “Not a word of defence? I helped you when you arrived here, and you couldn’t say a word in my favour?”

“I’m sorry. I can only follow the Knight-Commander’s orders.”

“Of course,” Samson sighed defeatedly, “I wouldn’t expect anything different from you. Let an old templar like me pass on some advice then. The Chantry will shove the Chant and lyrium down your throat, use you until you’re as bitter and burned out as I am. As long as you serve faithfully and mindlessly, they don’t care. Try to do something good for a young man whose only crime is being lonely, and this will be your reward. Cast out to rot.”

The walk back through the corridors of the Gallows to their shared quarters was silent. Once there, Samson removed his armour and placed it with slow finality on his armour stand. He spent a moment inspecting the shield before resting it in its place alongside his sword.

“Knight-Commander Guylian himself gave me this shield.” He mused, “Under his command, I thought we were doing something good with our service.”

He turned to inspect his crowded bookshelf with a gloomy gaze. “None of this will do me much good,” he mumbled, as he gathered his items into a pack. A small purse of money followed. A Knight-Lieutenant’s stipend was small, a Knight-Templar’s was smaller. The lightness of the purse reinforced Cullen’s suspicion that much of Samson’s limited funds were spent on the black-market lyrium he had once shown to Cullen. At the time, he had not realised its significance. Now his position as Knight-Lieutenant had revealed to him a thriving black-market trade in lyrium and lyrium dust that pervaded the entire Gallows.

Samson reached behind his bed to grab a familiar pouch. Reflecting Cullen’s thoughts, he gave a wry smile, “Try as you might, you can’t kill the black-market trade.”

“I can’t let you take that,” Cullen sighed.

“Dishonourable discharge means I don’t get a lyrium stipend, Knight-Lieutenant. Let me at least have this before the withdrawal kills me.”

Cullen turned away in tacit agreement.

Finally, with his meagre possessions packed away and clad in simple breeches and tunic, Samson left the room. Cullen escorted him to the Gallows docks past the curious and sympathetic gazes of Samson’s once fellow templars. With the speed of rumour, no doubt many had heard the news.

At the docks, Cullen stopped Samson with a hand on his shoulder, “Samson, for what little my words are worth: I believe you’re a good man. I’m sorry for what happened.”

Samson barked out a short laugh, “You’re right, it doesn't mean much. But thank you.” He stepped onto the ferry and gave an ironic salute. “Don’t let the Chantry do to you what they did to me, Cullen.”


	5. Initiation

**Drakonis 9:31 Dragon**

The beginning of Drakonis was marked by a solemn occasion for the Order. A cohort of recruits had completed training and now faced their upcoming vigil. To Cullen’s surprise, Knight-Captain Harmoran had requested his support in overseeing the vigils.

In his pre-dawn waking hours, Cullen polished his armour to a glittering sheen, musing over his own memories of his time as a recruit. Despite his limited knowledge compared to his fellow recruits, he had thrown himself into templar training, quickly matching them. He had revelled in the combat and weapons training, even the formal education, as new as that concept was to a farm boy from a remote village. It was true that he could not always stop his mind from wandering in the countless hours under the tutelage of the Mothers and reciting the chant. But faith had shaped his life and those memorised verses had given him a way to express that faith in a way he had not been able to as a young boy.

Throughout every year and challenge of his time as a recruit, the end goal had always been in sight. Service to the maker and those in need. The vigil was the culmination of many difficult years of training. The solemnity with which it was treated had impressed itself on all of them. The vows and first draught of lyrium that followed had sealed them all to a life of service and solidified the bonds of brotherhood that had developed during their time as recruits.

Cullen recalled his optimism and sense of fulfilment when he had first stepped into his duties at Kinloch Hold as a newly initiated Knight-Templar. So proud to have been assigned to the prestigious position of a circle. Despite that enthusiasm, the naïve initiate of little more than two years ago had not fully realised the requirements of service. A blurred reflection of his shadowed eyes and wan expression looked back at him from the polished surface of his breastplate. _Whatever trials I have faced and have yet to face, may Andraste give me the strength to fulfil my duty._

Dawn found Cullen in the training courtyard with the recruits soon to face their vigil. He and the remainder of the honour guard joined the recruits in a final set of morning exercises. The casual chatter that usually accompanied breaks in weapons drills was silent as the recruits instinctively reflected the calm demeanour of the Knights-Templar they would soon be joining.

The recruits were given the remainder of the morning as a rare moment of free time before their vigil commenced. Cullen filled the time with the never-ending list of tasks that was inevitable for a force of hundreds of men and women. A concerning report in the pile to be addressed caught his attention. A mercenary group operating out of Kirkwall had seen some surprising success in the past few months. The author of the report suspected that an apostate mage had been the source of their recent accomplishments. A subsequent investigation had found no tangible evidence, only hints of an elusive pair of Fereldans that had joined the company perhaps a few months prior to Cullen’s arrival in Kirkwall. Meredith had penned a quick recommendation on the report for templars to search through the refugee camps for signs of apostate mages. He supposed it was inevitable that there would be apostates amongst the Fereldan refugees. It was quite possible that some had escaped from Kinloch Hold during the Blight. With narrowed eyes, he assigned two squads of templars to investigate Lowtown and the Darktown refugee camps. With any luck, they might find evidence of apostates, although the likelihood was low. Anyone that had concealed themselves for this long in Kirkwall might succeed a while longer.

His expression darkened further. Another order from the Knight-Commander to investigate a report of a possible sighting of shades in the sewers under Darktown. He was glad they would soon bolster their ranks with the new cohort of recruits. It was difficult to find the squads necessary to meet the Knight-Commander’s requirements.

Time passed quickly, and Cullen found himself still bent over his desk as the mid-afternoon bell sounded. He detoured briefly past the mess hall and claimed a plain bread roll to quiet the sudden rumble of his stomach. The excessive use of spice in Free Marches cuisine was generally not to his taste, when he remembered to take a break to eat.

In the warm spring sunshine of the late afternoon that bathed Templar Hall’s inner courtyard, the soon-to-be initiates gathered in orderly lines, clad in formal templar robes. They were led by their honour guard of full Knights-Templar to Templar Hall’s chapel in pensive silence. A formal chantry service was conducted by Mother Anastase as the light faded. Finally, Knight-Captain Harmoran and Knight-Lieutenant Lovett, in charge of recruit training, stepped up in front of the kneeling recruits.

From his position at the front of the chantry, Cullen could just see the slight shake in the Knight-Captain’s hands, quickly concealed when he clasped his hands behind his back.

“Every one of you before me has faced the challenges of templar training with exemplary fortitude. Tonight, you face your vigil. Tomorrow, we hope to welcome you to the ranks of the Knights-Templar, ever stalwart in our service as champions of the just. May the Maker guide you and Andraste give you strength.”

Each of the waiting recruits was escorted to a small private chamber where they would be expected to spend their vigil in quiet contemplation and prayer. Cullen, along with the rest of the honour guard, arrayed themselves around the perimeter of the chantry. Templars would stand watch for the night to ensure the recruits’ vigils remained undisturbed.

The night passed as slowly as could be expected. Every one of the templars was accustomed to standing watch in full armour, but the boredom of a long watch in a peaceful location would take its toll on anyone. Cullen was grateful when he was relieved for a brief few hours at the midnight bell. There seemed to be little benefit to attempting sleep and he instead elected to return to the familiar solitude of Templar Hall’s library.

He returned to the chapel a number of hours later to stand the final portion of the watch. Finally, when the faint traces of dawn’s light lit the high windows of the chantry, the entirety of the honour guard assembled, and the chantry’s doors were sealed.

The recruits gathered in a cluster, exchanging apprehensive glances. Cullen almost smiled beneath his helmet, he could well remember the nerves with which he had faced his own initiation.

In turn, each recruit was led forward to kneel before the statue of Andraste and swear their vows. Vows of poverty, duty, and service to the Chantry, the Order, and the Maker. A rare few took one step further and vowed themselves to celibacy, usually taken only by chantry Sisters and Brothers.

The honour guard arrayed themselves into a narrow aisle in front of Knight-Lieutenant Lovett. Cullen took his place at the man’s right-hand side, standing in for the Knight-Captain at his request. Lovett stepped forwards with a small chest in his hands. The glow of the lyrium vials in their padded box was nearly blinding in the dim light of the chantry. The over-concentrated dose, many times the strength of the lyrium taken daily and vastly stronger than that used by the mages, was specially prepared to a formula known only to a select few. He recalled the searing intensity that had filled his mind, the pain that had set every nerve on fire and the sudden strength and certainty that had filled him. Every draught after that was an echo of the initial infusion. He automatically suppressed the hunger invoked by the memory of that concentrated blue liquid.

He may not have enjoyed the countless hours spent memorising and reciting the chant and exercising his mental focus, but Cullen acknowledged that it trained a level of concentration that was invaluable. Without that steel-clad willpower, the intense strength of this first infusion of lyrium could permanently scorch the mind. The strength of focus that it had instilled in him had been essential after his first draught of lyrium and the training in templar abilities that followed.

The Knight-Lieutenant lifted a vial from the chest and emptied its radiant contents into a goblet carved with Andraste’s face, “The lyrium is your final bond to a life of service to the Maker and Andraste. Through it, you will gain the strength to fulfil your duties.”

He beckoned the first recruit forwards. Despite earlier apprehension, she stepped resolutely through the ranks of the honour guard, encouraged onwards by the occasional companionable clasp on the shoulder. She stopped with a salute in front of the Knight-Lieutenant, her steady gaze hiding any nervousness. As she grasped the goblet, Cullen and the templar opposite him stepped forwards and laid steadying hands on her shoulders. The recruit drained the goblet and gasped in pain. Her knees buckled, and she would have fallen without the supporting hands of the templars on either side of her. After a brief moment of pained gasps her erratic breathing steadied and her spine straightened. The Knight-Lieutenant smiled. “Welcome to the Order, Knight-Templar Moira.”

Each of the recruits was brought forwards and welcomed into the Order with the draught of lyrium. Finally, the new initiates lined up at the front of the chantry, their previous nervousness replaced by the crystalline certainty of lyrium. They were welcomed by their new brother and sister Knights-Templar with claps and cheers. Cullen joined Knight-Captain Harmoran and Knight-Lieutenant Lovett at the entrance to the chantry.

“I hope they enjoy the good cheer while they have it,” the Knight-Captain sighed, “None of them know what they've bound themselves to yet.”

Cullen’s eyes were drawn again to the slightly more prominent tremor in the Knight-Captain’s hands and the faint sheen of sweat on his face. Samson’s bitter words returned to him briefly. He turned away politely as Lovett responded. “We do what we must for the Order.”

The Knight-Captain shook himself briefly and the cloudy look in his eyes cleared, “Better get the new initiates organised before they get carried away, Ser Lovett.” He turned to Cullen, “Thank you for your assistance, Ser Cullen. I imagine Meredith has plenty of duties waiting for you.”

Cullen saluted and turned to leave as Lovett began to marshal the new initiates. Although the recruits were now full members of the Order, a few weeks of additional training still awaited them. Before lyrium, training in templar abilities was necessarily academic. It was like the lyrium made you aware of a muscle you had always had but never used. With the first dose of lyrium singing in their veins, the meaning of every lesson, every tiring mental exercise became clear. The greater a templar’s ability to focus, the more effectively and strongly their newfound abilities could be exerted. It would still take time for the effects to become fully apparent. Years of lyrium ingestion meant that the substance seeped into every muscle and bone in a templar’s body and gave them their innate resistance to magic.

As he returned to his office he mused on the use of lyrium. It was certainly necessary to effectively exert Templar abilities, and even a temporary lack of lyrium would reduce the strength of those abilities. Any longer without lyrium led to crippling withdrawal, as he well knew. And for many, it seemed the efficacy faded over time. Was there a way to exert those abilities without suffering the inevitable negative effects? Or was it an unavoidable aspect of their sacrifice and service to the Order?

His mind drifted to his recent task he had been given. Peaceful assignments for those templars lost to lyrium and unable to function properly. A tranquil mage still functioned, still had a will of their own behind their empty eyes. The absent stares of templars lost to lyrium held nothing but a mind slowly falling in on itself. Faith in the Order demanded that he believe that sacrifice was necessary.


	6. What Hides in the Dark

**Drakonis 9:31 Dragon**

Cullen looked up from his desk as a form blocked the light streaming in through the propped-open door to his shared office. “Ser June. Any report on the shades in the Darktown sewers?”

She saluted with a casual smile, “I thought it was best to deliver this in person, Knight-Lieutenant. We dealt with the shades, but there were traces of a camp in the area. I was hoping I could requisition a few more templars to see if we can track down the apostate who summoned the shade. After what happened to Bastien, I don’t want to risk hunting a blood mage without a full squad.”

Cullen thought quickly through the templars available to him. With two full squads sweeping Lowtown and Darktown for apostates amongst the refugees, and another two on necessary duty in the circle, there was only the squad he had commanded as a Knight-Corporal remaining for discretionary duty. He stood from his seat and gathered his sword and shield from the stand by the door, “I can pull my squad. The sooner we find this blood mage, the better.”

The idea of leaving a possible blood mage in the city for any length of time was chilling. He penned a quick addendum to June’s report, noting the addition of his squad for the urgent hunt for a possible blood mage. As he and June left the office, he passed the report on to Knight-Captain Harmoran’s tranquil assistant with a polite nod and gathered his squad from their light duty stationed in Templar Hall.

As he had noted on his recent excursions into Kirkwall, citizens generally avoided drawing the attention of large groups of templars. Nevertheless, they were reasonably welcome in Lowtown. Templars were an even more familiar sight in Hightown, with a small permanent garrison stationed in Kirkwall’s chantry. Darktown was less welcoming to the presence of any official armed force. The undercity was known as a haven for Kirkwall’s criminal elements, bolstered by the complete absence of any of the city’s minimal guard force. Following the Blight, it had also become the only place open to Fereldan refugees. As they had been held at the Gallows docks before being permitted into Kirkwall, many of the refugees saw the Kirkwall templars as a less-than-friendly force.

The arrival of a full squad of templars in the dim undercity was greeted with hostile glares and sullen whispers. The bright armour and robes of the templars contrasted starkly with the poverty on show around them. They made their way through the hewn passages past makeshift dwelling marked by cloth doorways and vain attempts at brightening the otherwise miserable surroundings. Occasional cut-outs in the walls of the area led to commanding views over the bay, highlighting the fact that Darktown’s vast warren was carved into the jet cliffs that were Kirkwall’s namesake.

The squad paused over a nondescript hatch in the floor that marked an entrance into the city’s sewer system.

“Don’t bother holding your breath, Knight-Lieutenant,” remarked June to Cullen, “The smell won’t get any better.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” sighed Cullen as he motioned them on through the hatch into the sewer system. He couldn’t help but shiver at the thought that the tight press of people in Darktown would provide no resistance if an abomination made its way into the refugee camps above.

He dropped down into the sewers with a muted splash. Unidentifiable liquid swirled around his boots, stopping just short of the hem of his robes. Judging by the faint stains on the hems of June and her men’s robes, it was too much to hope that the water would remain this shallow. His shoulders tightened slightly as he glanced around the close confines of the sewage tunnel. The curved roof lay close enough to touch with an outstretched arm whilst its width was just wide enough to take four armed templars abreast. Beyond the glow of their lit torches, the tunnel was lit by faint phosphorescent lichen. He found himself feeling grateful that its glow was green. He took a reinforcing breath and pushed his discomfort behind lyrium’s soothing presence.

He gestured down the corridor, “Lead the way, Ser June.”

They splashed their way through tunnels that gradually sloped downwards into the depths of Kirkwall’s cliffs. The water deepened until it swirled above their ankles, stopping any chance of them passing with any stealth through the sewers.

June called a halt in a wider chamber of the sewer system, “This is where we found the shade. I’d rather not know what someone was doing deep enough in the sewers to spot it.” She pointed to a ledge above the water level, “The signs of a camp were there.”

Cullen walked over to the indicated area. A few belongings suggested two people were hiding here. A small sealed bag contained provisions alongside a couple of water skins. Cullen traced a faint stain splashed on the stone shelf and inspected the tips of his gauntleted fingers. A shade and evidence of dried blood. There was only one conclusion that could be drawn.

“Possibly two blood mages. It seems that this camp is still inhabited.” He glanced towards the tunnel entrance they had emerged from, “The sewers are a maze. Our best course of action would be to lie in wait until they return.”

June nodded, “Agreed.” She ordered two of her squad to station themselves at the chamber’s entrances while the rest of them doused their torches and stationed themselves out of sight to wait.

The time passed in tense silence. Finally, the water that had heralded their own passage now served to their advantage as one of the templars stationed at the entrance indicated that he had heard something. Cullen strained to hear faint splashing in the distance. With a sharp signal, he indicated that the squad should arm themselves. The ringing of steel drawn slowly was lost behind the growing sound of splashing and the faint echo of voices. The cold glow of magelight lit room as a man and woman emerged from the left-hand passage, both armed with ornately carved staffs.

They froze in shock at the sign of the templars closing in around them with drawn swords.

“No!” gasped the woman as she drew the staff from her back.

“Supress her!” ordered Cullen as he called a smite down on her with a tug on the lyrium singing in his veins. The woman staggered but remained standing as the effect of the smite was largely shrugged off by the sudden glitter of a spirit shield around her form. She growled in frustration as the heavy damping effect of multiple templars in close proximity stifled any further spell casting. She grabbed a knife from her belt with a free hand and slashed open her palm.

“Don’t give them the excuse!” shouted the male mage as he too pulled the staff from his back.

She raised her dripping palm and shouted a few mysterious words in ancient Tevene. The water near the woman bubbled and hissed as a burning form dragged itself from beneath the ground.

“Maleficar,” Cullen whispered in horrified disgust.

The woman tapped again into the power of the blood and cast a shimmering sheet of ice which trapped the templars’ boots in frozen water. Cullen was forced to sway to one side as a fireball came whistling past from the Rage demon. Another of the templars managed to smash the ice at his feet and leapt forwards with his shield held protectively in front of him. He slashed at the demon and cut a blinding streak in its molten flesh. It hissed in anger and slid around to face the templar. The remainder of the templars followed suit and smashed the ice around their feet, spreading themselves around the two more dangerous targets. The male mage had backed into a corner, his staff raised protectively in front of him. He seemed to be frozen, in fear or indecision.

More shouted words from the female mage heralded the arrival of a Despair demon that chilled the water around Cullen’s boots as it materialised in front of him. The strategic portion of his mind found time to be grateful that the mage didn’t have the power to summon anything more powerful than Rage or Despair. A Pride demon would have been a difficult foe in this confined space.

The Despair demon drifted backwards and summoned a beam of ice between its withered palms. Cullen raised his shield and deflected the beam towards the female mage. She staggered back a step with a hiss of pain as the bitter cold seared through her shield and bit into her arm. She was distracted by the advance of June and her templars as they crowded her with shields raised high and swift sword strikes. Each precise cut drained the shield until faint sparks were all that remained.

Cullen’s attention was drawn back towards the Despair demon as it retreated to the opposite end of the room. He signalled one his men to cut it off and they moved forward to trap the demon in the room’s corner. Cullen deflected another beam of ice into the wall, leaving a large patch of frost on the damp surface. The demon shrieked in anger and lashed at him with its clawed fingers. With the demon distracted, the other templar quickly stepped forwards and sent his sword whistling through the air to separate its head from its shoulders with a lyrium-strengthened blow. The demon slumped, and its cloaked figure disintegrated into a frozen pile of sludge.

Cullen turned back towards the other aggressors. The Rage demon slashed angrily at the templars that crowded around it, but the blows weakened as clean cuts tore gaping holes in its molten body. It hissed, and a burst of flames erupted in a ring around it. The templars staggered back a step as the fire wreathed them and one staggered back batting at flames on his sword arm.

The blood mage had fallen to a knee with a shriek of wild laughter. She raised arms that dripped with blood in preparation for a spell as her failing shield sparked around her.

Meanwhile, a pair of templars advanced on the retreating male mage as he attempted to cast a spell through the damping enforced by the templars. He closed his eyes and mustered his mana in a weak burst of electricity that skittered across the water and up the steel of the advancing templars’ boots.

A precise sword slash from a templar shattered the blood mage’s magical shield in a spray of sparks. Whatever spell she had been preparing fizzled out as a sword pierced through her chest to emerge from her back. She choked wetly and lashed out weakly with a tendril of the exposed blood. The tendril caught a nearby templar and he sank painfully to one knee as the spell scorched the blood in his veins. The sword was pulled from her chest as the templar holding it stepped backwards. Another slash opened her throat and she slumped to the floor.

Moments later a final hiss of anger heralded the death of the rage demon as another cut split its skin. It slumped into a rapidly cooling pile of heated sludge that sent steam rising from the shallow water around it.

Now only the male mage remained. The templars turned to advance on him as he drew the dagger from his belt. He slashed a wide cut across his chest. The nearby templars staggered as the mage attempted to wrest control of their minds from them. Cullen raced forwards from the corner of the chamber, his sword held high. As the blood mage concentrated on his spell, he sent a sweeping cut across the man’s arm that sent his staff tumbling from suddenly nerveless fingers. Another cut parallel to the shallow cut drawn by the mage’s knife sent him collapsing to his knees. A final strike pierced his heart and sent him tumbling to fall into the water covering the chamber with a splash.

The chamber fell silent as the final combatant fell. With the fading of adrenaline, Cullen’s collapsed to sit on the stone ledge circling the room and removed his helm with trembling hands. Although the fight had barely winded him, he found himself drawing in rapid breaths of the foul air. He squeezed his eyes shut as a succession of blood-soaked memories paraded through his mind. _Thank the maker there were no abominations._ This was the first time he had faced a blood mage and the use of magic against him since his time at Kinloch Hold. Having a sword between him and the maleficarum was cold comfort.

The murmur of voices pulled him back to reality. The remainder of the templars knew well enough to give him space as they clustered around the two injured men. As his breathing calmed, Cullen noted that, apart from minor injuries, the squad had emerged remarkably unscathed. The templars that the blood mage had attempted to control had recovered, the magic resistance of lyrium having rapidly negated the attempt at influence. He replaced his helm and stepped forwards to check on the two injured men.

The first, a man from his own squad, cradled his seared arm. “I’m alright, Ser. Thank the Maker for lyrium,” he laughed shakily. Much of the flame’s magical heat had likely been dissipated by the lyrium that infused his body. He accepted a hand up from Cullen and awkwardly sheathed his sword and shield with his uninjured arm.

The second templar crouched shivering with the aftereffects of the blood magic spell. June ducked to his side and helped him up with a supporting arm, “You’ll be fine,” she soothed, “Let’s just sit you down here for a minute or two while we recover.”

Cullen set his templars to confirm that the blood mages were truly dead. They dragged the limp bodies from the water onto the stone ledge and laid them out. A quick check for any signs of life confirmed that they would no longer be a danger to anyone.

One of the templars moved over towards Cullen, “I don’t recognise either of them, Ser. I doubt they escaped from the Gallows. Fereldan’s maybe?”

Cullen took a closer look and shook his head, “They don’t look Fereldan to me, and I don’t recognise them from the Circle Tower.” His brow furrowed. It was a worrying thought that Kirkwall might have to worry about a third source of apostate mages apart from fugitives and Fereldan refugees.

“Kirkwall or Marcher apostates, then?” mused June as she splashed her way up to them. “Kirkwall has always had a bit of a problem.” She gave Cullen a weary smile, “I believe thanks are in order, Knight-Lieutenant. I’m not sure the five of us would have managed to take down two blood mages and those demons without your support.”

Cullen saluted lightly, “Just doing my duty, Ser June. We couldn’t leave these blood mages free to cause havoc.”

He turned to marshal the waiting templars. It was past time to get out of these void-taken tunnels.

On their return to the Gallows, the injured templars were quickly hustled to a mundane healer. A night’s rest for the templar injured by blood magic was all that was necessary. The man seared by flames was quickly patched up and sent back to his squad. Cullen was glad that the injuries were not severe enough to require him to send for mage healers. The spirits used in healing major wounds edged far too close to demons for his liking.

On his return to his office, he penned another report on the incident for the Knight-Captain, noting the location of the apostates’ bodies for recovery.

The shadow of Knight-Corporal June darkened the open doorway again. She handed over her own report for the Knight-Commander and paused at the sound of the evening bell as she made to leave the room, “It’s been a busy day. I don’t suppose you’d like some food?”

Cullen shook his head, “Thank you, no, Knight-Corporal. I still have duties to attend to.”

June smiled and saluted, “Of course. Good night, Knight-Lieutenant. Thank you again for the assistance earlier today.”

Cullen attempted to lose himself in the duties that awaited him for the next day, fearful of what slowly fading memories sleep might uncover. But there was only so much that he had been tasked with, even given the time spent in Kirkwall that day. The evening shaded to the full darkness of night and he found himself looking at a clear desk.

He was glad that night that he no longer shared quarters with Samson.


	7. New Guard Replace Old

**Drakonis 9:31 Dragon**

Cullen paused in the corridor on the way from his quarters at the sight of Knight-Captain Harmoran standing with a slightly confused expression on his face.

“Can I help you, Knight-Captain?”

“Ah, Knight-Lieutenant… “

Cullen blinked. “Cullen, Ser.”

A light dawned in his eyes, “My apologies, you looked like someone else for a moment. I believe we are both headed to the Knight-Commander’s office for the staff officers’ meeting. Allow me to accompany you if I may.”

He heard the tap of boots on stone as the Knight-Captain kept pace beside him, “Congratulations on your recent success clearing the blood mage from Darktown, Ser Cullen. I had suggested to the Knight-Commander that it might be wise to give you time before sending you after a Maleficar. Perhaps I was wrong. You showed commendable speed in dealing with the problem.”

“Thank you, Knight-Captain. Did you have any success in tracing where they might have come from?”

“Unfortunately not. Their dress suggested they may have hailed from as far as Markham. Maker knows what the two of them were doing in Kirkwall.” He responded vaguely, unconsciously correcting his earlier mistake, “Ah, I had almost forgotten. I must send a message to the Knight-Commander of the Circle there.”

“Of course, Ser. Please inform me if I can be of any further assistance.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I imagine you are quite busy enough with your own tasks.”

They proceeded in silence through the corridors, the Knight-Captain seemingly lost in thought. They arrived in the meeting room adjacent to the Knight-Commander’s office to the sound of noisy chatter from the assembled Knights-Lieutenant. Cullen and the Knight-Captain were followed closely by Knight-Commander Meredith. The room quieted immediately, and Cullen stepped sideways to join his fellows gathered along the edges of the room. They were all familiar faces, but he couldn’t call any of them close friends even had he wanted. His rapid rise to the ranks of Knight-Lieutenant and his unexpected appointment as the Knight-Commander’s adjutant had precluded anything more than cordial relationships.

The Knight-Commander stepped up to the front of the room and clasped her hands behind her back. “No doubt many of you are aware of the increase in escaped mages. No doubt you are all also aware of the presence of black-market lyrium within the Gallows.” She glowered around the room, “Perhaps some of you might even turn a blind eye to its presence amongst your men. This cannot be tolerated any longer. Where something may enter the Gallows, it may also exit. I expect all of you to pay close attention and attempt to find the source of this black-market trade. The Gallows is an island. There are only so many routes that can be taken, and I want them stopped up.”

The usual decorum broke briefly as the gathered Knights-Lieutenant exchanged unconvinced or irritated glances. Neither the Knight-Captain nor the Knight-Commander had shown much interest in shutting lyrium smuggling down until now. Generally, the senior officers only confiscated black-market lyrium where it was unavoidably obvious. The rule to many, although not acceptable to Cullen’s mind, was that if it wasn’t seen, it didn’t exist. Actively clamping down on the trade would not be a popular move.

Even the Knight-Captain looked staggered. His eyebrows shot up and a subtle hint of anxiety tinged his voice, “Our resources are stretched thinly as it is, Knight-Commander. Surely black-market lyrium should not be our main concern.”

“This is not a matter for discussion, Knight-Captain Harmoran.”

Harmoran’s usual fatigued calm broke as he turned directly towards the Knight-Commander, “You are as well served by blocking all black-market trade in the Gallows. I find it highly unlikely that they would risk our attention by helping apostate mages.”

“Oh? And are you well versed in the dealings of smugglers?”

Harmoran frowned absently and stepped back to his position by the Knight-Commander’s side. “Of course not. You make a reasonable assumption.”

The Knight-Commander turned back to the shuffling Knights-Lieutenant in front of her, “Knight-Captain Harmoran raises a valid point. Any smuggling activities in the Gallows are a source of concern until we ascertain how these apostates are escaping. I expect weekly reports informing me of your progress.”

Even Cullen’s limited experience told him it would be an impossible task. No one would be willing to admit they made use of the black-market trade. He had confiscated items from the men under his command on more than one occasion. Typically, it was alcohol, banned in the confines of the Gallows and for on-duty templars, but occasionally black-market lyrium. None had given up the source, regardless of the penalty.

The Knight-Commander glared around the room until the assembled Knights-Lieutenant returned to attention, “Dismissed.”

She stopped Cullen and another as he made to leave the room, “Knight-Lieutenant Cullen, Knight-Lieutenant Ambris. A word.”

They waited until the Knight-Captain and remaining Knights-Lieutenant had left the room. She turned to them with her arms folded over her breastplate, “I have begun to develop concerns regarding Knight-Captain Harmoran. Correct me if I misunderstand, but I believe he has delegated some of the duties typically expected of him to the pair of you.”

Ambris nodded, “Yes, Knight-Commander. I’ve been handling some of the reports coming through to the Knight-Captain.”

“And you recently oversaw recruit initiation in his place, Cullen?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander.”

“These and other recent events have led me to believe he is no longer able to adequately attend to his duties. I require the pair of you to accompany me to his quarters.”

Ambris and Cullen exchanged concerned glances. “Of course, Knight-Commander.”

The pair trailed behind the Knight-Commander as she led them to the private corridor for the commanding officers. Knight-Captain Harmoran’s room was little bigger than the shared quarters used by the Knights-Corporal and Knights-Lieutenant. Templars rarely had many possessions, with all their needs provided for by the Chantry. Harmoran was no exception. His shelves held only a few books and neatly folded spare robes.

The Knight-Commander inspected the lyrium kit and the small box of vials set to one side on a small table while Cullen and Ambris stationed themselves uncertainly on either side of the door. She spent a few more moments searching before pulling a small leather pouch from a concealed space behind the bookshelf. The pouch tinkled slightly as she upended it to let its contents spill onto the table. The blue glow was unmistakeable. Beside him, Cullen heard Ambris sigh in disappointment.

The sound of rapid steps in the corridor heralded the arrival of the Knight-Captain, “What is the meaning of this?” His usual placid expression had been replaced by a look of combined anger and fear.

“I could ask you the same question, Knight-Captain Harmoran.”

Harmoran seemed at a loss. His shoulders slumped defeatedly. Suddenly he looked older than Meredith, despite being a few years her junior.

“I know what it looks like. I assure you, I am no addict.” The reply rang rather hollowly in the face of the scattered lyrium vials, over a week’s supply at normal dosage, “I found my daily dose was no longer sufficient to allow me to fulfil my duties. I was beginning to ... forget things. So, I obtained additional lyrium. I am still perfectly capable of serving.”

“The evidence speaks otherwise. I cannot risk my Knight-Captain failing in his responsibilities in these troubled times. Perhaps you might seek retirement.”

He straightened to meet Meredith’s glare with a livid one of his own, “I am not like those poor souls lost to lyrium.” The defensive response hid a note of dread. It was every older templar’s hidden fear that they would succumb and become lyrium addled simpletons. The fear was further reinforced by the fact that Harmoran knew exactly what his recent forgetfulness foretold. “I challenge you to find someone more capable in Kirkwall.”

“You are a good man, Harmoran. But in these troubled times we do not need good men, we need good templars. I fear you are no longer able to adequately respond to the Order’s requirements.” She took a step towards him, “Either you accept a less strenuous position elsewhere, or I will be forced to relieve you of your post before the Gallows suffers further.”

“Is this your attempt to remove me because of our disagreements regarding the treatment of mages here?” He demanded.

Meredith shook her head coldly, “Everything I do is in service to the Order. Do not force me to relieve you of your post.”

Harmoran sighed in defeat, “So be it. I will accept a position elsewhere.”

“The Order thanks you, Knight-Captain. I will leave you in peace now. May Andraste guide you.”

She left the room with Cullen and Ambris following close behind her.

“The Order must be a pillar of strength.” She remarked, “I will always do what must be done to ensure the safety of Kirkwall and this Circle.”

~~~~

A week passed by following the announcement of the Knight-Captain’s imminent transfer to the Ansburg chantry. Older templars exchanged knowing looks, well aware of the true meaning behind a templar’s retirement to a more peaceful position. For them, there was little surprise. Small signs became obvious with experience, and the Knight-Captain had become increasingly withdrawn and distracted in the months since Cullen’s arrival. It was a greater surprise to younger templars, and those such as Cullen who had known the Knight-Captain for only a short time. Rumours ran rife through the Gallows as his departure became old news and the possible identity of his replacement was discussed.

If anything, it was a more widespread discussion in the Circle itself. On patrol in the Circle, he overheard countless mages contemplating the possibilities. The topic was popular enough that they barely noticed his passage, continuing to discuss rumours until they finally noted his Knight-Lieutenant armour. Then the veiled hostile glances behind his back transformed into measuring stares that they could barely conceal under the usual feigned indifference. Cullen’s cold civility was strained almost to breaking when he broke up their gatherings in the corridors of the circle. He found his shoulders tightening even further than was usual under their close scrutiny.

With the Knight-Captain preparing for his transfer to Ansburg, Cullen found himself laden with additional duties. Reports and responsibilities intended for the Knight-Captain now passed directly to the Knight-Commander, and therefore to him. Between regular patrols in the Circle and Kirkwall and additional reports to attend to, he had no spare time, even had he wanted it.

The day before Knight-Captain Harmoran’s departure, he passed by Knight-Commander Meredith’s office to deliver reports for her attention. She held up a hand to stop him as he made to leave.

“Tell me. Do you agree that Knight-Captain Harmoran should have been relieved from his post? Speak freely, you needn’t worry about any retribution from me.”

Cullen paused before responding, weighing up the benefits of staying impartial versus speaking his mind. His convictions won out over the possible benefits of neutrality, “The Knight-Captain represented an attitude to mages that was too lenient. It is a dangerous outlook for a templar and one that should not be encouraged. Even the best of us can fail to understand the dangers of magic.” His voice drifted off for a minute as the faces of dead friends drifted through his mind, “Better to relieve him now before his struggle with lyrium compounded the problem.”

Cullen couldn’t tell whether the Knight-Commander approved or not, she simply nodded to acknowledge the response.

“And who from your fellow Knights-Lieutenant would you recommend as a replacement for Harmoran as Knight-Captain.”

“I really don’t think I’m qualified to answer that, Knight-Commander.”

“Indulge me, Cullen.”

Cullen skimmed through an internal list of the Knights-Lieutenant in the Gallows. Most were unremarkable enough that he could hardly imagine them as a suitable for a senior command position. A few of the more prominent Knights-Lieutenant came to mind.

“Karras is enthusiastic, but he lacks the subtlety and diplomacy for a command position. Alrik would make more enemies than friends as Knight-Captain, although he has a loyal following. Gwinn is competent, but she is dedicated to her duties in the chantry garrison. Lovett is an excellent instructor for the recruits. He or Ambris would likely be good replacements.”

“I note that you do not include yourself. Your modesty does you credit.”

“With all due respect, Knight-Commander, I don’t have the experience that the others have had.”

“Experienced templars such as Harmoran allow their desires to shape the position, rather than permitting the needs of the position to shape them. And there are some experiences which cannot be learnt with age.” She stood from behind her desk and turned to pace the office, “My sister was a mage. She was kind, caring. I looked up to her. My parents feared she would not cope with the rigours of life in a Circle. So, they hid her. But we knew less than nothing of how to teach a mage to safely use their powers, and, eventually, our neighbours became suspicious and called for the templars. I remember the day they arrived as clearly as if it were yesterday. My sister saw the templars and, in her panic, she made a deal with a demon. Kirkwall is a crowded city. Seventy people died at her hands, including my family, before the templars were finally able to kill the abomination. It was a mercy.”

Meredith’s story summoned his own memories of twisted abominations and the carnage they had caused. Butchered and bloodied forms stalked through his mind for a moment and he shook his head once to clear it.

She stopped in front of Cullen and tapped the Sword of Mercy etched on his breastplate, “Mercy, Cullen. The burden of magic is a heavy one that many are unsuited to carry. Our burden to prevent such tragedies is heavier. Our task is thankless, and it is endless. Vanishingly few in the Gallows truly know what it means to hold that responsibility. Fewer still are able to impress that meaning upon others.”

The Knight-Commander turned back to her desk and picked up the pile of reports that Cullen had placed there, “Thank you, Cullen. Dismissed.”

Had that been a rebuke or praise? Before he had been sent to Kirkwall, Knight-Commander Greagoir had criticised him for his new-found zeal. As if he was to be reprimanded for rectifying his lack of caution before the breaking of the Circle. _Does she also disapprove?_

~~~~

Knight-Captain Harmoran’s departure was commemorated as a formal event in honour of more than twenty-five years of service in Kirkwall. Those templars not on essential duty lined up in neat parade formation in the Gallows courtyard under the curious looks of the visitors that clustered outside the Gallows’ gates. The glaring midday sunshine glittered off polished armour as the templars stood to attention in front of the stairs leading up to the Gallows itself.

The voices of men and women trained for years in the Chant’s verses filled the courtyard with the strains of the Canticle of Benedictions. With the last echoes of the powerful verses reflecting back at them from the walls of the Gallows, they stood in respectful silence.

Knight-Captain Harmoran stepped forwards to stand before the gathered templars.

“There’s little I need say at a time like this,” began Harmoran, “It has been an honour to serve in Kirkwall and in the Gallows. Duty has now called me elsewhere, but I will always be a proud Kirkwaller. Maker guide you all in the future.”

He saluted precisely. The gathered templars saluted in response, the enclosed courtyard echoing with the metallic sound of close to two hundred gauntlets striking breastplates. The central blocks of templars turned sharply to provide a passage out of the courtyard for the Knight-Captain. At the docks awaited a trade ship bound for Ansburg. Harmoran left the courtyard with a sad smile, but he spared no backwards glances for the looming bulk of the Gallows.

The templars returned to attention facing the Knight-Commander where she remained at the head of the stairs.

“One order of business remains. The Gallows cannot be without a Knight-Captain. In these troubled times, we need someone who can remain steadfast in the face of adversity. Someone who is fully aware of the heavy responsibility and duty that we carry as Templars.” She looked down to the gathered templars, “Ser Cullen Rutherford, step forwards.” Cullen’s heart skipped for a brief second as he took a step from his position at the front ranks of templars. “I hereby promote you to the position of Knight-Captain of the Templar Order in Kirkwall. May you walk always in the Maker’s light.”

A faint scuffing sound behind him signalled the surprise of the templars behind them as they shifted in their positions. Cullen’s mind went blank for a moment in sheer surprise. Seconds later, a steel-clad resolve filled him. _I will welcome this opportunity to serve the Order_.

He took another step forwards and drew his sword. He knelt with it resting point first on the ground before him, “I will serve to the best of my abilities.”

“I have no doubt.” She beckoned him to join her at the head of the stairs, “Let the Kirkwall Templars welcome you to your position.”

Cullen stood and sheathed his sword. He strode up the stairs to join Meredith and stood by her side in front of the dense ranks of templars that filled the courtyard. In unison, the gathered templars saluted, the courtyard once again echoing with the metallic sound. Meredith joined them in their salute and then, to his surprise, extended an arm for him to clasp, “Congratulations, Knight-Captain Cullen.”

~~~~

The remainder of the day passed in a flurry of activity that gave Cullen little time to process the astonishing reality of his promotion. His old squad had to be assigned to a new Knight-Corporal, his duties distributed amongst the other Knights-Lieutenant. A new office, a move to his new quarters to be arranged, requisitions for Knight-Captain’s armour.

Late in the evening he passed by the First Enchanter leaving his office as the mage returned to his quarters for the night.

“I hear congratulations are in order, Ser Cullen. I hope our relationship will be less… antagonistic than the one I have with Meredith.”

“I will do whatever my Knight-Commander and duty requires of me, First Enchanter.”

Orsino chuckled dryly at the familiar exchange, although his smile looked pained.

“Good night, Knight-Captain.”

He was caught again in the corridors of Templar Hall by some of his once-fellow Knights-Lieutenant.

“Congratulations, Knight-Captain,” said Ambris as she extended a hand, “I should have known you were destined for success as soon as you turned up under my command. Knight-Corporal to Knight-Captain in less than a year. I can’t think of anyone who’s jumped through the ranks more quickly. Not that it’s undeserved, I hasten to add.”

“Thank you, Ser Ambris. I appreciate your support.”

“Care to join the rest of us Knights-Lieutenant for a celebratory drink before you’re drowned in your duties as Knight-Captain?”

“I shouldn’t.”

Ambris shrugged, “Then join us in a toast for Knight-Captain Harmoran. It’s a bad way for any templar to go, and I hope he finds peace in Ansburg.”

“Alright.”

Ambris and the small group led him to a cosy tavern in the quiet streets of Hightown. The contrast to the Hanged Man was obvious in the subdued rather than raucous patrons. Cullen once again dared nurse only a single ale as they raised a toast to Knight-Captain Harmoran.

He cocked his head at Ambris after a lull in conversation, “You don’t resent not receiving the Knight-Captaincy yourself?”

She barked out a laugh, “Meredith is a good Knight-Commander, but I don't have the strength of conviction she's looking for. I can do plenty from where I am.” Nods around the table, Lovett included, signalled the agreement of the others, “Some may feel differently. I know Alrik especially wanted the position. ”

“Noted.”

Lovett leaned forwards, “You might want to know, Knight-Captain. There are rumours going around that you were … attracted to that Fereldan Warden mage.”

Cullen’s blood ran cold and his thoughts raced back to the aborted conversation in the Hanged Man, “I barely knew her.” He couldn’t help but blurt out. At least that was mostly true. He could count on one hand the number of times they had actually spoken.

“Just a warning for you. If you do have any critics, they’ll try to use it against you.”

Lovett was distracted by the sound of the mid evening bell from the Kirkwall chantry. “I should return to the Gallows.”

Cullen and the others rose along with him to leave the tavern. The warning haunted Cullen all the way back to the Gallows. Every time he thought he had left his weakness behind him, a fresh reminder rose to taunt him.

~~~~

Warm morning light filled the room with an almost ethereal glow. A warm breeze caressed his cheek. It smelled like the summer breeze off the lake where he had grown up, not of….  His mind shied away from the thought. That must have been a dream. A terrible nightmare. His parents had talked him out of joining the Templar Order. He had married. He had a life here in Honnleath.

A form shifted under the covers of the bed in the centre of the room. Familiar tilted eleven eyes met his, blinking sleep away. A smile bent her lips and she reached out a hand, “Won’t you join me, Cullen?”

One step forwards. Another, until his shins hit the side of the wooden bed with a metallic click. Metal? He looked down to see his simple tunic waver as though through a heat haze. His hand lifted to touch the cold steel of his breastplate. _I am a templar. This is wrong._ He squeezed his eyes shut, “Leave me, demon!”

Cullen opened his eyes to the lurid glow of the magical barrier. He levered himself up from where he had fallen unconscious. His muscles wavered, and his head pounded with pain. But sleep was too dangerous. He dropped weakly into the familiar supplicant’s posture.

An hour of relative peace, with the distant sound of screams.

_Maker, my enemies are abundant._

_Many are those who rise up against me._

_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_

_Should they set themselves against me._

“Perhaps something different?” The voice of his tormentor weaved sickeningly in between the sounds that drifted down from the harrowing chamber.

She stood there, wearing nothing at all. A small smile danced over her lips, “This could all be yours. Don’t you want me?” Abruptly, her feet rested on rot-stained floor. Hands that were more like talons were covered in blood all the way up to her warped wrists.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Leave me.”

When he opened them again, it was almost a relief to see the familiar sights of bloodied corpses and shattered armour. A blessed few minutes of peace.

_In the long hours of the night,_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

“You can’t shut your eyes forever. You’ll sing for me eventually, sweet templar.” The voice coiled through the whispered echoes of his prayers.

_I will see the stars and know_

A beautiful woman in the pristine robes of a Chantry Sister crouched in front of him. For a moment, her eyes glowed lyrium blue. She held out a vial of crystalline liquid, “Here, won’t you take it? I know you’re hurting.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

_Your Light_

Another vision. Another temptation.

_Your_

Another.

_You-_

Another.

_Maker, please let me die._

He woke in sweat-soaked silence, his eyes shooting open. He retched with painful strength until his muscles ached.

With boundless relief he saw the familiar confines of his quarters, lit by the dim orange of a glow stone rather than lurid purple. Shadowed forms resolved into his armour stand, a book shelf, a chest, rather than bloodied piles of corpses and twisted abominations. He levered himself up to sit on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. _Maker_ , _will I ever be free of these torments?_

It hadn’t always been as bad as that. Sometimes the demon had let him be for hours, an entire day, with nothing but passing abominations for company. Waiting in the dank chill of the antechamber had almost been worse. If the wardens hadn’t found him, he would have broken, eventually. But faith had sustained him.

He found himself whispering the familiar verses of the Chant as he had so many times to drown out the tortured screams and cruel temptations.

“I survived, I did not falter.” He whispered into the room’s half-light with conviction.

Despite knowing that the Desire demon no longer preyed on him, memories of the dangers that sleep had posed left him unwilling to attempt any further rest that night. He chuckled bitterly to himself. If nothing else, the demon had taught him the dangers that their sentiments posed. Any lingering weakness and desire must be excised from his mind.

_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_

_Should they set themselves against me._


	8. Flames in the Distance

**Solace 9:31 Dragon**

Cullen clenched the raven’s message in his hand tightly enough that his gauntlet creaked. _Maker, how can this have happened again?_ The templar tending the eyrie darted away on seeing the black look that crossed his face. He loosened his grip to reread the message.

> _To the Commanding Officers of Kirkwall’s Circle,_
> 
> _This is a grim day for the faithful of Starkhaven. The city’s circle has been devastated in a blaze that has killed countless of the templars and mages housed here. The loss of the circle appears to have been part of a concerted attack that lead to the deaths of the ruling Vael family._
> 
> _All mages’ phylacteries were lost to the flames and many have fled the circle to become apostates. Starkhaven no longer has the facilities to safely and securely accommodate its mage population. I therefore request that a portion of our mages be accepted in the Kirkwall circle. Others of Starkhaven’s mages will be distributed amongst the remaining circles in the Free Marches. We depart for Kirkwall with a contingent of templars and eighty mages within two days of the date on this missive. Our arrival is expected by no later than the end of the month of Solace._
> 
> _Maker watch over us all._
> 
> _Knight-Commander Carsten, Starkhaven Circle_

His missive was more of a demand than a request. The Circle’s Knight-Commander suspected that its loss was linked to the assassination of the ruling Vael family rather than a mage uprising. Even so, the fall of another circle raised unpleasant reminders of the breaking of Kinloch Hold.

The eyrie’s custodian crept out from his hidden location, “Would you like to send a reply, Knight-Captain?”

“None is necessary, thank you,” he growled in response.

Cullen swept out of the eyrie. This event was on a grander scale than the multitude of duties usually required of a Knight-Captain. There was now little more than a week to prepare for a sudden influx of mages that would add almost half again as many as were currently housed in the Gallows. A list of tasks sped through his mind as he sped through the lower levels of Templar Hall. _For once, I can be thankful that I sleep so little._

He stopped first at the Knight-Commander’s office and handed the missive over to her. “Knight-Commander, an urgent communication from the Starkhaven Circle.”

Her eyebrows drew down as she scanned the letter. “This is grave news indeed. See that they are accommodated separately from the mages here. I will not have any possible maleficarum polluting the Gallows.”

“Of course, Knight-Commander.”

He stopped next at the First Enchanter’s office a short distance across the hallway.

Orsino looked up from the weighty tome on his desk. “Knight-Captain, I'm afraid I have no further updates for the Knight-Commander regarding apprentices that are ready for their harrowing.”

“Unfortunately, there are more urgent matters to which I must attend. The Gallows will soon be taking eighty mages from Starkhaven and we must prepare suitable accommodation for them.”

“Eighty mages?” Orsino spluttered, “What in Andraste’s name happened?”

“The Starkhaven circle burnt down a matter of days ago. Maker have mercy on them.” Cullen shook his head, “The new arrivals must be quarantined from the current mage population until we can ensure that they will not be a danger to the Gallows.”

“Meredith’s proposal, no doubt,” muttered Orsino, “The Gallows is large, but the inhabitants are currently distributed over many levels. It will be hard to isolate the Starkhaven arrivals.”

“Then we move the current inhabitants. The three floors below the Senior Enchanters’ level will be suitable.”

Orsino raised an eyebrow, “They’ll not be happy to be moved.”

“They will have no choice but to comply. I would appreciate it if you could inform them.”

“So be it,” sighed Orsino, “I’ll notify the Enchanters.”

“Thank you, First Enchanter. I will oversee the move tomorrow.”

Plans continued to skim through Cullen’s mind as he left Orsino’s office. Even the thought of so many mages suddenly arriving in the city sent shivers down his spine. A suitably large contingent of templars would be needed to meet the Starkhaveners outside the city’s limits to provide a buffer between the population and them. It would be a catastrophe if even a handful of the arrivals fell to possession.

Cullen’s office became a hive of activity. The castellan in charge of the invisible force of servants and affirmed who tended to the mundane needs of the circle’s residents gave him a filthy look on being informed of the sudden influx of people. Cullen had a feeling that the man would have liked nothing better than to set fire to his desk on hearing the news. _It’s nice to know someone else will be as burdened as I will be over the next week._

The Knights-Lieutenant, if they felt the same, were subtler in their irritation. They accepted the news and new orders with resigned sighs. Behind that resignation, he knew they shared his deep concern at the idea of so many new mages entering Kirkwall. Ser Alrik in particular struggled to conceal the hostile look that crossed his face as he accepted his updated orders. The numerous apostates that they picked up from the Fereldan refugee camps hardly helped matters. It seemed that every day brought a new report to be dealt with, another mage to be recovered.

The event highlighted a troubling issue for the templars in Kirkwall. Their forces would be stretched thin if they were to provide appropriate coverage through the Circle with so many new mages. He penned a quick recommendation to the Knight-Commander to increase their recruitment efforts.

Cullen worked late into the night until even the lyrium in his blood could not keep him alert. He returned to his quarters, but background tension in his mind made sleep all but impossible. Finally, he managed a handful of hours sleep to wake an hour before dawn feeling no more rested than before he had slept. The subtle disquiet in his mind hinted at forgotten dreams in those few hours of sleep.

The sliver of sky through the slit window was still dark, with cloud cover concealing even the faint glow of starlight. Still, Samson had been right that a Knight-Captain was lucky enough to have a window in their quarters, even if it was a small one. The room was otherwise spartan. Cullen had no idea what to do with all the space after so many years in barracks as an initiate and at Kinloch Hold. Even the few months in shared quarters with Samson made the idea of a private space to himself completely novel. With the exception of a few books borrowed from Templar Hall’s library, the room was bare of personal possessions. His armour stand loomed in the corner next to a bookshelf with a few scattered tomes on Thedas’ history, military and otherwise. The lyrium kit and case of vials gained a shelf of their own. His sole purchase for his new quarters had been a single glowstone from the Formari that now filled the room with a faint orange light.

The blue glow of his morning lyrium dose further brightened the room as he mixed and drained the precise half-measure. The liquid seared its way down his throat to ease the tension from his shoulders and wash away fatigue. A glance in the mirror on his washstand reminded him that lyrium might eliminate the internal consequences of insomnia, but it could not conceal the shadows under his eyes. The age it added to his face proved beneficial, at least.

His pre-dawn prayer in Templar Hall’s chantry was perhaps more fervent than usual. _Andraste, lend us your strength to ensure the safety of this city._ He could not help but worry about the possible dangers of introducing so many new mages into the Gallows, even quarantined.

Despite the seniority of his rank, he still made time to join morning drills. Reasons to make use of weapons and combat skills were thankfully rare, but that just reinforced the importance of keeping those skills sharp. Daily drills and duties in the city relieved the tedium of sitting to read the endless reports and requisitions that crossed his desk.

He stopped Lovett briefly after the conclusion of the morning’s drills for fully initiated templars and indicated the waiting recruits.

“How many more recruits do you believe we could accommodate?”

Lovett thought for a moment, “We could double our intake if you’re willing to assign an additional Knight-Lieutenant to training, Knight-Captain. It’ll take time, of course.”

Five years was the absolute minimum, as Cullen was well aware. Weapons, combat, chantry education. They could not risk compromising the quality of initiates simply to increase their numbers. Even those raised by the chantry were never initiated before the age of eighteen. The risk of lyrium ingestion for those younger than that was too high.

“I would appreciate a list of recommendations for those Knights-Corporal under your command who you believe might be suitable to share training responsibilities, Ser Lovett.”

Lovett saluted, “Yes, Knight-Captain.” He paused for a moment, “Might I trouble you to spare a brief moment to spar with a couple of recruits? They need something to measure themselves up against and they’re too used to me and my Knights-Corporal.”

Cullen glanced up to the lightening sky, “I can spare time to spar with one.”

Lovett called forwards one of the older recruits from his position by the wall, “Wilmod is one of the recruits closest to being ready for his vigil.” He whispered in an aside to Cullen, “He could do with being taken down a peg or two, if you’d indulge me, Knight-Captain. I've had to reprimand him a few too many times for talking with the mages in the courtyard.”

Cullen readied his sword and squared off against the recruit. The recruit’s stance had the precision of someone drilled every day, but his shield was angled slightly low, leaving his upper body exposed. In truth, there was probably only a three or four year age difference between them. But those years of real-world experience facing the horrors of apostates, demons, and abominations in combination with the lyrium that pervaded his body made all the difference. A brief exchange and clash of swords on shields allowed Cullen to gauge the recruit’s reaction time.  Loose overconfidence spoke to him not yet truly understanding the seriousness of combat.  The recruit leapt forwards, overextending himself in his eagerness to get a strike on a templar Knight-Captain. It wasn't even necessary to tap into lyrium-reinforced strength as Cullen blocked and responded with a strike that left the recruit’s defence wide open. Another strike whistled through the air to stop short of the recruit’s neck. The recruit cringed backwards too late to avoid the attack.

A few of the recruits cheered and whistled before quieting under a glare from Lovett. The fight had been over almost before it started. Wilmod slunk back to the rest of the group with an envious backwards glance.

Lovett laughed, “Keep practicing, recruits, and you might be able to match a full templar.” He saluted Cullen, “Much obliged, Knight-Captain. Not all of our recruits are convinced of the need to maintain good weapons skills.”

Cullen smirked briefly, “I knew a few like that myself. Even less saw a point to the rest of the Chantry education.”

“I’m sure we’ve all had our moment of falling asleep in a Mother’s lecture after a long day of training,” chuckled Lovett, “Won’t stop me from working them hard. They’ll be ready when their vigil comes around, Knight-Captain.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he glanced back to the whispering recruits with a frown, “Please inform me if you have any further issue with this Wilmod. Mages cannot be their friends. Understanding that is vital if they are to serve as true templars.”

The sound of the morning bell drew him away from the cool breeze in the courtyard and back to his office. Orsino waited impatiently in the corridor as he arrived.

“As I expected, Knight-Captain, my people are not happy with the news that they are to be moved, but you really don’t offer us much choice, do you?”

Cullen didn't bother to answer the rhetorical question. Orsino trailed after him in the corridor. “Regardless, we do not have the funds for so many new mages.”

Cullen looked back in surprise, “Surely the goods sold by the Formari more than make up for any deficit in Chantry support?”

“That may be true now, but if you insist on increasing your numbers, we will be strained further than I am comfortable.”

“Then petition the Grand Cleric. The finances of the Circle are a First Enchanter’s responsibility.”

Orsino frowned at him, “Thanks to Meredith’s new rules, even I cannot leave the Circle without a templar escort.”

Cullen sighed. _Yet another task to deal with._ “So be it. I will inform the Knight-Commander and escort you myself if she is unavailable. Tomorrow. For now, the mages in the Gallows must be moved.”

He collected a list of quarters assignments left for him by the castellan. The fact that it was already on his desk when he arrived suggested that the castellan had been working even later than Cullen.

Orsino waited outside the door and followed Cullen as he left. “I will also assist in overseeing the move. Someone needs to be there to look out for our interests.”

Squads of templars waited in Templar Hall’s internal courtyard, already briefed with the requirements. Cullen distributed quarters assignments, to be dealt with on a floor-by-floor basis.

Apprentices in the teaching halls on the lower floors gawked at the large group of templars marching through the main thoroughfare of the Gallows. They swept through the circle in an orderly fashion to ensure there were no large gatherings of mages in the corridors as they were moved. Protests were kept to a minimum, whether from the fear of so many templars, or the presence of the First Enchanter keeping a critical eye on the proceedings.

Cullen’s gaze was drawn to the sound of a heated argument outside the quarters of one of the mages. A short Enchanter gestured angrily at a templar in the doorway to his room. The volume of the argument increased, and Cullen caught the templar's hand just as he raised it.

“Knight-Templar. I expect you to conduct yourself in a manner that properly befits the order,” he growled.

“I’m sorry, Knight-Captain. It’s just these damn robes question us at every turn.” The templar muttered.

Cullen released the templar’s arm and turned to the glower down at the mage. The size difference between a templar in bulky plate armour and the mage was obvious. “What is the problem, Enchanter?”

“I’ve had these quarters for twenty years,” the mage protested, surreptitiously attempting to hide the staff in his hand behind his back.

“And now you will have new ones.” Cullen responded coldly. A brief dangerous glance at the gnarled staff told the mage that he had not failed to notice it, “Unless you would prefer your permanent quarters to be in the holding cells, I suggest you comply. Immediately.”

The mage backed away a step, “I’ll move.” He almost ran back through the doorway to begin collecting his belonging.

Cullen turned back to the offending templar, “I expect you to improve your conduct before you find yourself guarding those holding cells. Do not lower yourself to their level.”

The templar saluted sullenly, “Yes, Ser.”

Orsino appeared behind his shoulder. “Is there a problem here, Knight-Captain?”

“It has been dealt with, First Enchanter. Perhaps you might reinforce the importance of complying with our orders to the mages.”

“Perhaps it is the templar who was at fault.”

Cullen’s eyes widened and the templar beside him shifted angrily to set himself in position by Cullen's shoulder.

“Are you questioning our ability to keep this Circle secure, First Enchanter?” Cullen asked from behind a cold veneer of calm. The tightness in his shoulders returned with a vengeance. The corridor fell silent and the heads of other templars turned towards Cullen and the First Enchanter with dangerous focus.

“Of course not, Knight-Captain, but you might consider that it is not always mages at fault.”

“And you might trust that my templars can be relied upon.”

“Trust is in short supply here,” Orsino muttered as he turned away from them. At a gesture from Cullen, the templars returned to their posts, dropping from veiled ready stances back into positions at ease.

Cullen spared a final stern glance for the templar before he returned to his position at the head of the corridor to oversee the proceedings.

Without any inhabitants, the quarters more closely resembled the cells they had once been. Cullen noted with some appreciation that it would make securing the building easier than Kinloch Hold. No templars would be left locked in the Gallows to face their fate alone if he could help it.

The castellan sidled up to Cullen as the last mages left the floor. By this point, the irritation seemed engrained in the lines of the man’s face. He cast a furtive scowl in Cullen’s direction before glowering down the empty corridor, “Leave the rest to me. You can go back to staring at the mages.”

“Remember who keeps you safe,” Cullen couldn’t help but respond in annoyance. His patience for the castellan’s needling was growing strained. “Good day, castellan.”

~~~~

The next morning found Cullen, Orsino, and an additional pair of templar escorts making their way up the steps leading to Kirkwall’s chantry. Meredith had approved Orsino’s visit and, in a gratifying show of trust, had allowed Cullen to act as her representative. She had accompanied them as far as the Hightown before departing with her own escort to attend to business in the city. The air between her and Orsino had crackled with distrust throughout the entire ferry ride and walk to Hightown. Citizens had hurried out of the templars’ path even faster than usual.

The chantry soared over the mansions of Hightown, dwarfing even the Viscount’s keep. Bronze statues overlooking the chantry’s courtyard glared in the bright sunshine of a warm Solace day. Chantry banners in rich red lay still in the stifling afternoon air on the building’s rugged sandstone walls. The templar guards flanking the door saluted as the small group entered the building.

Inside, the heat of the day was relieved. Cool air filled the cavernous space and the blue tiled ceiling gave the illusion of a calm evening sky. Despite the tense watchfulness that Cullen had maintained while escorting Orsino, the sight of the towering statue of Andraste and background hum of the chant was soothing.

Grand Cleric Elthina herself welcomed them to the Chantry with a warm greeting for Orsino. She spared a glance for Cullen, “Knight-Captain Cullen, we haven’t yet had an opportunity to meet. I was saddened to hear of your predecessor’s departure. May the Maker grant him peace. Meredith speaks highly of you, l have no doubt you will do well here.”

Cullen gave a short bow, followed by the templar escorts, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Elthina led them to her office on the upper balcony overlooking the Chantry’s main hall. The escorts stationed themselves outside the door as Cullen and Orsino followed her inside. With Elthina seated behind her desk, Orsino followed suit whilst Cullen took up a post in the corner. Elthina beckoned, “Please, Knight-Captain, no need to stand on ceremony. I'm in no danger here.”

Cullen reluctantly seated himself beside Orsino, shifting to ease his sword and shield into a comfortable but accessible position. Orsino, mindful of the alert templar next to him, laid his staff gently against the side of his seat rather than keeping a hold on it.

“So, how can I be of service, First Enchanter?”

“You heard the news from Starkhaven, no doubt, Your Grace?”

“It was grave news indeed,” she said sadly, “So many lives lost.”

“The Gallows has been asked to take some of the Starkhaven mages following the loss of their Circle. With so many new mages to accommodate, we humbly request an increase in Chantry funding.”

Elthina glanced at Cullen with concern, “How many are expected, Knight-Captain? And can they be safely accommodated?”

“Eighty, Your Grace. The Gallows has the capacity. The Order will ensure that the city remains safe.”

“l have no doubt that Meredith will make sure of that. Please provide your requirements to my assistant. The Chantry will provide the necessary funds. Within reason, of course.”

Cullen stood and gave another short bow. Orsino followed suit with a resigned sigh, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

So faintly that Cullen wasn’t sure he had heard correctly, Orsino muttered to himself, “If only Meredith were so accommodating.”

A Chantry brother caught him as they made to leave the upper balcony level. He held up a hand to stop the First Enchanter and his templar escort.

“Knight-Captain, surely the templars can provide aid in avenging my family.”

“Your family?” Cullen questioned in confusion.

“I am Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven. Elthina refuses to provide assistance, but my family deserves justice.”

 “My apologies for your loss, Brother Sebastian, but the templars are sworn to protect against magic. We are not thugs, and we are not enforcers. We are peacekeepers." Too many in the chantry saw the templars as their own private army, "Even were we willing to go against the Grand Cleric’s wishes, you could not order us to provide retribution for you.”

The man huffed in anger, “How can the chantry be so unwilling to right such a grievous wrong?”

“It’s not my place to answer that, but I hardly think marching templars on Starkhaven would be the best course of action.” A trace of sarcasm slipped into his voice, “I image neither the Grand Cleric nor the Knight-Commander would like to start an Rxalted March if at all possible.”

The Brother parted with a final aside, “Justice must be done. Perhaps I have no choice but to seek it elsewhere.”

~~~~

A week later, a harried templar scout burst into Cullen’s office with dust-streaked robes, “Knight-Captain, Ser! The Starkhaveners have been spotted half a day’s march from Kirkwall.”

Cullen jumped up from his seat. After a few days spent tensely waiting for word from the scouts he had sent, it was good to hear news. If the Starkhaveners had been spotted, then he no longer needed to worry about hordes of abominations roaming the Free Marches.

“I will inform the Knight-Commander. Regroup with the rest of the scouts.”

He and the Knight-Commander marched from Kirkwall at the head of a small contingent of templars. Finally, a small cloud of dust became visible in the distance. They halted on the North Road to meet them. The column of people looked… tired. The road’s dust marred the usually bright colours of both the mages’ robes and templars’ equipment. The mages leaned heavily on their staffs and marched half-heartedly under the vigilant gaze of their escort. Even the Templars looked worn out from two weeks spent watching their charges in such an exposed environment.

Cullen trailed Meredith as she approached the Knight-Commander at the head of the column. “Allow me to welcome you to Kirkwall, Knight-Commander Carsten. I pray the Maker provided you with a smooth journey?”

“No such luck, I'm afraid, Knight-Commander.” He growled in the distinctive Starkhaven brogue, “A group of mages escaped in the Vimmark passage. I couldn't spare the templars needed to hunt them down, what with all the phylacteries lost.”

Meredith frowned and turned to Cullen, “Dispatch a few squads as soon as possible to track and retrieve them.”

“I’d advise caution. One of them was a known trouble-causer in Starkhaven.” Noted Knight-Commander Carsten, “I fear he may have turned to forbidden magics once away from our watch.”

“My templars have much experience in dealing with dangerous apostates.”

“Glad to hear it,” he looked back over his shoulder and beckoned his force onwards, “The sooner we get this lot into your Circle, the more comfortable I’ll feel.”

Meredith ordered the Kirkwall escort into position around the Starkhaveners as they continued their march. Cullen could hear the sigh of relief that rippled through the ranks as the black cliffs of Kirkwall finally appeared over the horizon. That sense of relief faded from the mages when the contingent reached the Kirkwall docks. A small guard of templars in full plate kept a section of the docks clear of dockworkers and casual onlookers and away from the ferry moored at the jetty. The relieved sighs were replaced with nervous glances and tense whispers as the menacing bulk of the Gallows became visible on its isolated island. Even the few apprentices scattered through the ranks, usually the most animated, became subdued. To a mage, the Gallows looked like nothing more than the prison it had once been.

They were ferried across in small groups to be welcomed by the First Enchanter and the circle’s Senior Enchanters. According to Carsten, Starkhaven’s own First Enchanter had died in the blaze, along with the circle’s Knight-Captain, both having stayed behind to make sure every last mage and templar possible was able to escape. That left Orsino as their only representative in Kirkwall.

Cullen accompanied the final ferry load of nervous mages as they clustered on the edge of the barge and watched their approach to the Gallows. Meredith and Orsino waited on the docks. Orsino looked almost as weary and downcast as the Starkhaveners, but he still managed to welcome each mage with a warm clasp of hands and a kind word for the young apprentices amongst the group.

It was late into the evening when the mages were finally settled in the Gallows. The castellan reappeared behind an army of servants and affirmed with meals for the Starkhaven mages. Confined to their quarters, they would not be allowed to mix with the Kirkwall mages until Meredith was certain their ranks hid no blood mages. Finally, the Starkhaven templars settled into temporary barracks for the night with a sigh of relief. The following day, once fully provisioned, they would face another long march back to Starkhaven.

Cullen spent that night patrolling over the three floors dedicated to the Starkhaveners. Despite the activity of the day, he couldn’t yet face rest. The corridors were once again filled with the soft rustles and gentle metallic clanks of movement from the double watch he had assigned.

A templar leapt back guilty as Cullen passed through a corridor, “Knight-Captain!” he saluted a little too hastily.

Cullen eyed the door that the templar had been testing, “Something you’d like to tell me, Knight-Templar?”

“I... uh… heard something suspicious?”

The templar’s shifty attitude worried Cullen, but he decided to give the templar the benefit of the doubt, “Correct protocol is to ensure backup is nearby. Here I am. Do you still hear something suspicious?”

“No, Ser.” He stationed himself with rigid precision at his post at the head of the corridor.

“Glad to hear it.”

Cullen swept through the corridor, but concern furrowed his brows. What had the templar been doing? At least collusion could be ruled out, the Starkhaven mages were too new to be known by any of the Kirkwall templars. The man had certainly been experienced enough to know that he shouldn't check on a disturbance without ensuring that backup was available. He refused to believe the worse theories hinted at by surreptitious glances and sly laughter when people thought no officers were nearby. If it was true, surely Meredith or Knight-Captain Harmoran would have long ago put a stop to it. Surely. _I must have faith in the order, or what else is there?_


	9. A Lack of Tranquility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we finally reach events in Act 1 of DAII...

**August** **9:31 Dragon**

Kirkwall’s chantry was uncharacteristically quiet. The usual background hum of the chant had been replaced by the murmur of nervous chantry Sisters and Brothers as they stood behind a protective screen of templars. A full squad of templars lay sprawled over the chantry’s upper balcony amongst the signs of an intense battle. Their armour was charred and torn with the distinctive marks of an abomination’s overpowered assault. But scattered amongst those obvious signs, Cullen noted the damage caused by more mundane attacks. A sword strike marred the flaming sword of one templar’s breastplate, a standard magical attack scorched the robes of another, and a crossbow bolt pierced the helm of a third. _Attacking templars in the heart of the chantry. What kind of city is this?_ He thought in horror.

Worse still, the only dead bodies were those of the templars. The abomination clearly retained enough sense of self to recognise its allies. That spoke of a rarer and more powerful demon than simple rage or desire. And its allies had enough skill to hold their own against highly trained templars, even if most had died at the hands of the abomination. The signs suggested at least four assailants: a swordsman, likely a greatsword given the damage, a crossbowman, and two apostate mages, one of them the abomination.

Knight-Lieutenant Gwinn of the Kirkwall Chantry garrison strode up to him past the templars in full plate stationed at the bottom of the stairway. The anxious eyes of the chantry folk followed her and Cullen up on the balcony. She joined him where he stood alone in the chaos and rolled her shoulders to settle the weight of her sword and shield. Events had her worried enough to arm herself in what should have been the safest place in Kirkwall.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Knight-Captain. They were found early this morning when the affirmed were preparing the chantry for the day’s services.” She crouched and removed the helm of the Knight-Lieutenant sprawled on the floor, “Whoever they are, they weren’t from my garrison.” She strode over to the robed form off to the side, “I recognise the tranquil though. This is Karl Thekla. Ser Alrik relocated him here a couple of days ago. Reliable. Polite. But they all are.”

Cullen took a closer look at the slack features and greying hair of the tranquil, “I recognise him. He belonged to Ferelden’s circle once. He passed his harrowing long ago. But it’s possible that the Knight-Commander authorised the rite of tranquillity on him at some point recently.” Meredith did seem to believe in a more liberal use of the rite than was usually expected. He turned to the templar on the floor, “And this is Ser Bardel. His men were assigned to sweep Lowtown for signs of apostates.”

“Perhaps they tracked an apostate into Hightown?” mused Gwinn.

“It is possible.” Cullen turned back to the tranquil and inspected the single wound in his abdomen, “An apostate, an abomination, and two allies come all the way up to Hightown, into the Chantry itself, just to kill a tranquil? Tranquils are no danger to anyone.”

“Explaining the actions of apostates is beyond me. Maybe the tranquil knew one of them and they were worried he would give them up. Suggests circle escapees to me.”

Cullen shook his head in wordless dismay.

Gwinn smiled ruefully, “Welcome to Kirkwall, Knight-Captain.” She turned back to scattered bodies and her face sobered, “I’ll need to identify the bodies so that we can inform next of kin.”

“Please do, Ser Gwinn, and provide me with the list as soon as possible. Notifying the next of kin should be my responsibility.” He shook his head again and felt a painful sense of disappointment in himself. _These men were my responsibility. I should have done something to prevent this. I wanted to stop any more lives from being lost to abominations._

“Will do, Ser.” She looked sadly at the fallen templars for a final time before walking to lean on the balcony’s railing and stare up at the statue of Andraste, “I sincerely hope we catch whoever caused this atrocity. Leave the rest to me, I’ll update you if we find any hints as to who did this.”

“Thank you. I’ll recommend an increase in the number of men you have stationed here to the Knight-Commander. We’ll also increase the number of patrols in Lowtown and Darktown. Maker willing, the abomination will reveal itself before any more lives are lost.”

Cullen walked slowly from the chantry lost in thought. Yet again, events had summoned up painful parallels to Kinloch Hold. First the loss of the circle in Starkhaven. Now the death of templars and an innocent tranquil at the hands of an abomination in a place that should have been sacred. Barely a year into his time in Kirkwall and the Free Marches seemed to be descending slowly into chaos. Cullen could feel the eyes of the chantry folk watching him all the way from the balcony to the chantry’s exit. He could guess their thoughts. Could the templar Knight-Captain keep them safe if even the heart of the chantry wasn’t protected from magic?

~~~~

Meredith had approved the increase of patrols in Kirkwall and the increase of the chantry garrison. She had been as horrified as he had been. But the issue of their numbers once again reared its head. It would be months yet before the current recruits were ready to take their vigils. With the loss of an entire squad, a new cohort would barely be enough to increase their numbers. Nevertheless, he resolved it would be best to check up on the progress of the most advanced cohort and their latest intake of young recruits. Since the man’s promotion, Cullen had not managed to cross paths with Knight-Lieutenant Rydal, the second officer assigned to recruit training. Now was as good a time as any.

The training yard echoed with the sound of barked orders as Cullen entered. Ranks of recruits stepped through sword forms, from the flowing movements of the oldest recruits in half plate to the tentative movements of the youngest in light training gear.

Cullen frowned. _Less recruits than there should be_. Some familiar faces were missing, including Wilmod. Since Lovett’s warning, Wilmod had been reported to him for clandestine meetings with a few mages who had later gone missing from the Gallows. Another such event, and he would be expelled entirely. Perhaps Lovett or Rydal had already taken steps to remove him from his position as a templar recruit.

Cullen walked over to the Knight-Corporal leading the training exercise at a convenient gap in the drills.

“Knight-Corporal Damian.”

The Knight-Corporal started guiltily, “Ah, Knight-Captain. I didn’t see you there.”

“I’d like a report on the recruits’ progress. Correct me if I’m wrong, but there appear to be less recruits here than there should be.”

The templar paled until his tan skin almost matched Cullen’s Fereldan pallor, “Ah. Yes. Right. Some of the recruits have gone … missing. They left the Gallows and never returned.”

Cullen nearly choked, “I’m sorry, did I mishear something?” He snapped, “The recruits have gone missing from the Gallows entirely? No one should have let them leave. And why wasn’t I informed?”

The Knight-Corporal winced as if finally realising he had made a monumental mistake. “It was Knight-Lieutenant Rydal’s orders. He said he was dealing with it and would inform you or Knight-Commander Meredith.”

Cullen felt a cold chill. Clearly Knight-Lieutenant Rydal had purposefully hidden the problem from his commanding officers. _Perhaps I should have vetted Lovett’s recommendation further_. Or a worse thought, perhaps Lovett had encouraged this behaviour from the start. 

“How many are missing?”

“Perhaps ten over the past couple of weeks, Ser.”

Cullen closed his eyes with a pained outrush of breath. _Enough for a full squad._ One lost recruit would have been bad enough. Now was a time when they needed more recruits, not less. Otherwise attrition would quickly wear them down. He felt an anxious need to fix this problem himself before matters spiralled out of control and the Gallows lost all its recruits entirely. It would take years to recover from such a travesty. Meredith would be well within her rights to remove him from his position as Knight-Captain for letting this happen under his watch.

 “Ten. And you didn’t think to report it to the commanding officers,” Cullen stated icily, “Where is Ser Rydal?”

“Ah. He’s not here, Ser.” He continued quickly when he saw the black look that crossed Cullen’s face. “He has business in the city. He passed recruit training on to me for today.”

“Business? Never mind, that is not the important issue right now. Point out those who know the missing recruits. I will address this myself.” He glared at the cringing templar, “Consider yourself relieved of this position. Fetch Knight-Lieutenant Lovett and then report to Knight-Lieutenant Ambris for immediate reassignment, Knight-Templar Damian.”

“Yes, Knight-Captain,” Damian responded weakly, calling out the name of an older recruit in the crowd.

The recruits milled with confusion as their training officer crept out of the courtyard. The indicated recruit walked forwards tentatively and saluted, “Knight-Captain?”

“I’ve just been informed that some of your fellows have gone missing, Recruit Ruvena. Tell me everything you know.”

Ruvena held up her hands, “I know we’re not supposed to leave the Gallows, Knight-Captain, Ser,” She glanced back at the rest of the recruits and admitted reluctantly, “Some of the older recruits, those who joined a little later, like to go visit the Blooming Rose when they can. But some of them stopped coming back. I reported it to the new Knight-Lieutenant and he said he’d deal with it. Then Wilmod and Keran went missing. Wilmod may not have agreed with every part of the training, but I never would have thought he nor Keran would desert like that.”

 _Maker’s Breath, the Blooming Rose?_ Despite his best efforts, his cheeks reddened slightly. In his first months in Kirkwall, Mettin and some of the other Knights-Corporal had tried and failed to drag him on one of their trips to the notorious brothel. “Keeps us from looking too closely at some of the prettier mages,” he had leered. Even those who had not taken vows of chastity weren’t strictly allowed to visit brothels, but the officers generally turned a blind eye. The newness of his own position meant he would face rebellion in the ranks if he attempted to enforce stricter rules. However, that leniency would never extend to the recruits. Both Lovett and Rydal would have some questions to answer.

“Thank you, recruit. Please come directly to me if you hear anything further regarding the missing recruits.”

Lovett ambled into the training yard and curiously glanced over the milling recruits.

“Damian said you wanted me, Knight-Captain?”

Cullen led a concerned Lovett into a passage away from the curious eyes and ears of the recruits.

“Ten missing recruits, Knight-Lieutenant Lovett,” the ice returned to Cullen’s voice, “Missing recruits that Knight-Lieutenant Rydal has been covering up.”

Lovett paled almost as much as Damian had, “Missing recruits? I swear on Andraste’s name, Knight-Captain, I would never have recommended Rydal if I had known he would do something like that.”

“Are you telling me that none have gone missing from your training cohorts?”

“None, Ser.”

“And what’s this I hear about recruits being allowed to leave the Gallows? Recruits do not just wander off an island without someone noticing or approving.”

“That was my prerogative. They can leave with my permission to visit family in Kirkwall. It helps. Being stuck seeing almost nothing but these walls for so many years could drive anyone crazy,” Somehow Cullen felt that Lovett wasn’t referring only to recruits. “It’s never been a problem up until now.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. The Gallows couldn’t afford to lose its training officers as well as its recruits. Apart from the breach of procedure, Lovett was a reliable man.

“Letting recruits visit the Blooming Rose, of all places.” He shook his head, “I will have to inform the Knight-Commander. The final decision is hers.”

Lovett paled even further at the mention of the Blooming Rose and nodded, “I understand, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen turned back towards the recruits gathered in the training yard, “The recruit cohorts will have to be merged temporarily while we find a replacement for Rydal.”

“I’ll get right to it, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen penned an update for Meredith. She would not be happy, but he would not fall into the trap into which the hapless Damian had fallen. Then, with reluctance screaming in every fibre of his being, he left his office to visit the Blooming Rose.

~~~~

Unlike the quiet streets of Hightown outside, the Blooming Rose was filled with noise and colour. Cullen was greeted inside the entrance by a false smile and murmured words of welcome that left him blushing.

A woman in a dress that left very little to the imagination sauntered up to him, “A templar Knight-Captain visiting my humble establishment? I’m flattered. How can we be of service?”

Cullen raised his eyes to a point around the woman’s eyebrows, “Some of the order’s recruits recently visited your establishment. We would greatly appreciate if you could tell use when the recruits were last seen here, Serah.”

Her welcoming expression wavered at the edges, “There are no templars here, let alone recruits, Messere. Templars don’t visit brothels, and we would know better than to serve a recruit.” She mustered up a seductive smile, “But I’d be happy to arrange a private audience if you’d like to have a closer … conversation with some of my ladies. Or men.”

Cullen coughed, and he raised his eye level a fraction higher, “T-Thank you, that won’t be necessary. I will just speak to the employees here.”

“We know better than to serve recruits, Messere Knight-Captain.” She repeated insistently, “But I welcome you to ask them. They’ll not tell you anything different.”

True to her word, the employees gave the same response as the proprietor, almost to the word.

“We would never serve a recruit. You, on the other hand, Knight-Captain…”

“Serving templar recruits is a quick way to get shut down.”

“We know better than that, Messere.”

Cullen knew they lied, but it seemed futile to expect that any of them would admit the truth to a Knight-Captain. Perhaps a lower ranking templar? But any templar the employees would be willing to talk to would be one with a vested interest in not helping an investigation into misconduct.

He gave up on questioning the employees and sped from the building as quickly as decorum would allow. He wasn’t quite fast enough to escape the return of a burn in his cheeks and a hitch in his breathing as a few of the women cried farewells after him.

He leaned against the cool stone of a column outside the building for a moment to calm his racing heart. The temptations they had shouted as he left hewed too close to memories he desperately wanted to forget. The cool breeze on his face and deep blue of the summer evening sky went some way to reinforcing the reality of the here and now. He cast one final irritated glance at the Blooming Rose before returning to the Gallows. There would surely be other traces he could follow tomorrow.

~~~~

His plans to continue tracking the missing recruits the following day had been brought to an abrupt halt at the sight of the paper on his desk. Perhaps half an hour had passed by and still Cullen stared at the list of names. He would like nothing more than to let someone, anyone, else write the letters of condolence for those with next of kin.

Gwinn’s investigation had turned up nothing. If there had been any clue as to the reason for the squad being in the chantry, their attackers had taken it. It left them with nothing but a vague idea of four assailants whose only description was the weapons they carried. It wasn’t much to go on. Apostates didn’t carry signs over their heads, and every mercenary in the city was equipped with a blade of some kind. Crossbows were rarer, but not by much. _Maker willing, one of them will make a mistake and we will find them._ Surely no abomination could stay hidden for long.

It seemed almost as though the Maker had answered his prayer for a distraction at the sound of tentative knock at the open door of his office.

“Recruit Ruvena. Have you any news for me?”

“Wilmod came back some time last night, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen stood abruptly from his desk, “Where is he now?”

“The recruit barracks, Ser.”

True to her word, the offending recruit sat on his bunk in the barracks. He sported a fading bruise under his eye and sickly pale skin but seemed otherwise unharmed.

“Recruit Wilmod,” Cullen snapped from across the barracks.

The recruit stiffened and marched over to him, “Yes, Knight-Captain.”

“Explain to me where you have been the past few days.”

Wilmod shifted nervously, “I was out in Kirkwall to visit some … um … friends. I was jumped in the Docks. I woke up in some trapped in some warehouse. When I finally escaped, I came back to the Gallows as soon as I could, Ser.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. Thugs attacking templar recruits seemed an unlikely story. But given what he was coming to know of Kirkwall, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

“And were you alone?”

“Yes, Ser.”

“Direct me to this warehouse.”

“Um… I don’t remember exactly where it was, but I could tell you the rough area.”

“Then please do. You are to be confined to the Gallows until this issue is resolved.”

One recruit returned. Many more still missing. The more details that emerged, the more concerning the story became.

He returned to the Gallows that evening none the wiser. No warehouses matched the description provided by Wilmod. No one at the docks seemed to recall seeing templar recruits anywhere but travelling to and from the ferry. And there were certainly no recruits tied up in shadowed back alleys or abandoned warehouses. Why let one recruit run free and keep the rest concealed?

Cullen returned to the training yard as dawn broke. It was time to have another word with Wilmod. A familiar face was missing when he arrived. He pulled Recruit Ruvena out from the training cohort.

“Where is Recruit Wilmod?”

“He slipped out of the barracks this morning, Knight-Captain. He said he was heading out of the city to ‘clear his head’.”

Leaving the Gallows was one problem. Leaving the city entirely was far more serious.

“Did he say where?” Cullen asked urgently.

“Sundermount, Ser. When I asked, he said he liked to see the stars from there when he was young.”

Cold anger filled Cullen. So Wilmod, known for consorting with mages who had escaped the Gallows, had now travelled all the way out to Sundermount. The same location well known to be the easiest place for apostates to hide. Meanwhile, Keran, one of their best recruits, was still missing. This had quickly escalated to something far more sinister than desertion or assault. One grim possibility after another marched through his mind.

“Thank you, Recruit Ruvena. You have been a great help. Do not speak of this to any of the other recruits.”

It was time to find answers.


	10. Enemies Among Us

**August 9:31 Dragon**

Cullen was barely an hour’s march outside of Kirkwall when he spotted the glint of armour reflecting the weak sunshine that filtered through the clouds above. Broken stairs wound their way up through the scrubby brush characteristic of the slopes that slowly transitioned into the distant Vimmark Mountains. Following a brief climb, he reached the top of a ridge with a commanding view of the hilly terrain surrounding Kirkwall. A makeshift camp came into view from around a bend in the path that hugged the edge of the ridge. A small campfire crackled in the shelter of an outcropping and, on a chest in front of the flames, a figure in recruit armour sat idly warming his hands.

“Recruit Wilmod.” Cullen’s voice snapped out with barely restrained anger. “Explain yourself.”

Wilmod jumped up from his seat and scrambled behind one of the crates that dotted the area.

“Knight-Captain! I, uh…”

Cullen strode forwards until he stood face to face with the recruit, “Allow me to start. A recruit is known for fraternising with mages who later escape the Gallows. The same recruit flees Kirkwall to a camp full of supplies. Meanwhile some of his fellows are still missing.” He bit off each sentence with clipped precision. “Perhaps you have another story for me that somehow explains this?” _Maker, please may this not be what I fear it is._

Wilmod’s mouth opened and closed a few times as he tried to find a response. His eyes darted about the campsite as if looking for an escape.

Cullen grabbed him by the shoulders, “Andraste be my witness, Wilmod. I will have the truth from you, now!” Anger slipped out from under his control as the recruit’s silence only reinforced his apprehension.

“Mercy, Ser, mercy!” the recruit pled as he tried to break free from the grip on his shoulders.

Cullen’s fraying control finally broke and he kneed the recruit in the gut, “Were it that easy.”

Wilmod collapsed to the ground in a clatter of metal. Cullen drew his sword and aimed it steadily towards the quivering recruit. Were Wilmod’s apostate friends waiting just out of view? Was Wilmod helping to shelter escaped Kirkwall apostates?

“I will know where you were going. And I will know now,” he growled.

Movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye as a small group ambled around the bend in the path. One strode forwards and cocked an eyebrow at him, “I thought templars only treated mages this badly. Nice to see you’re branching out.”

A second member of the group, similar enough in appearance to be her brother, stepped forwards and laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“It’s the blasted Knight-Captain. Don’t,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

“This is templar business, strangers,” Cullen snapped. Such a small but heavily armed group wandering the slopes outside Kirkwall were cause for suspicion. At least one had the sense to keep out of business not their own.

From his position sprawled on the ground, Wilmod laughed. The cruel sound was a stark contrast to his vulnerable position beneath a templar blade.

“You have struck me for the last time, pathetic human!”

Wilmod’s armour buckled as the flesh beneath warped and bulged. He stood to the sound of tortured shrieks as the chain links of his mail ripped apart. Ripples in the ground around him heralded the emergence of three shades as they pulled themselves from the fade. _No, this cannot be possible,_ Cullen thought in nauseated horror as his sword sank. The creature in front of him no longer bore even a passing resemblance to Wilmod. The final remnants of the recruit’s corroding breastplate flaked away to leave the appallingly familiar twisted form of an abomination. Black eyes without a hint of humanity bored into his.

Working entirely on habits engrained after years of training, Cullen fell into a ready stance, blade at the ready and shield precisely angled to deflect magic from the abomination.

“Maker preserve us,” he gasped.

He called on the lyrium in his blood to blanket the area in a denial of magic. Its rising song hummed in his ears and almost drowned out the shrieks of the shades as they glided towards him.

A crossbow bolt shot past him to strike one of the shades in the forehead. It hissed in anger and paused in its advance. Cullen took advantage of the distraction and flowed forwards to engage the abomination. It was sheer madness to attack an abomination and three shades alone, but it was a templar’s duty.

It lurched towards him in response and slashed at him with claws as long as his forearm. The claws screeched along the surface of his shield with a tortured squeal that almost overcame the lyrium song for a moment. Dancing flames tinged with the green of the fade wreathed one of its hands as it tried to claw at his face. He felt a tingle in his cheek as the edges of the magical flames dissipated on his skin. Cullen kicked out to give himself more space and slashed a deep cut across the creature’s chest.

A flicker at the corner of his vision marked the glide of one of the shades as it drew closer, tattered rags flickering in and out of the fade behind it. He took another step back and split his attention between the approaching shades and reeling abomination.

One of the strangers jumped into his vision with a heavy downwards slash of his blade that separated a shade’s arm from its body. It shrieked and awkwardly slashed at its assailant with the remaining arm. Two of the other strangers slipped into his field of vision and engaged the remaining shades. One bashed it backwards with a strike of her shield, whilst quick strikes from the polearm of the other distracted the final shade. More crossbow bolts flew past at eye level to send the abomination reeling a step further back.

Cullen didn’t give himself time to process the unexpected allies. He took a quick step forwards and pressed the advantage with precise strikes that severed tendons in the abomination’s arms. Somehow, it still mustered a crackle of electricity that tensed his muscles and almost sent his sword tumbling from numb fingers. He gripped the hilt more tightly and stabbed forwards to pierce the creature’s gut. A quick tug sideways ripped a jagged hole in the creature that steamed in the muggy Kirkwall air. With the creature distracted, another cut pierced its heart and sent it falling to its knees. A final strike sent its head spinning off into the brush at the edges of the camp.

Cullen glanced around to see that the strangers had also despatched their assailants. Small piles of rags were the only sign that there had ever been demons in the small campsite. No dead. He breathed a hushed prayer of gratitude. Thank the Maker that the demon possessing the recruit had been a weak one. A powerful abomination would have easily ripped the small group to shreds.

With the threat gone, he dropped the denial of magic. The soothing lyrium song faded back to its usual barely audible hum and he became aware of the shake in his hands. He hid it from himself and the strangers by sheathing his sword and shield. A few deep breaths and, this time, the trembling stopped faster. He allowed himself the brief luxury of believing that the memories might be fading. Or that at the very least they were beginning to affect him less.

The calm after the battle allowed him to survey the strangers more closely. Two swordsmen, one of them a woman in city guard’s armour, oddly enough, and a dwarf bearing a crossbow. The leader was armed with a stave that had a blade almost the length of her arm. It made a common disguise for a mage’s staff, but many a templar had embarrassed themselves by bringing in a suspected apostate only to find the mage’s ‘staff’ was in fact a simple polearm. In fact, some templars chose to train in polearms themselves. In the press of the battle, it had been hard to watch her, and the abomination had called down magic of its own. The residual mana in the air made it impossible to tell if the woman was a mage or not. Still, she bore watching.

The leader of the group leaned on her polearm and turned to stare at him, her eyes full of unspoken questions.

He strode towards them with a shake of his head, “I knew, I _knew_ he was involved in something sinister,” he couldn’t keep the confusion from his voice as he paced a few steps to look at the scattered remains. He spoke almost to himself as he looked down at the abomination, “But this. Is it even possible?”

Of all the possibilities he had considered, this had not featured anywhere.

The leader of the group cocked her head at him, “Do you think he was possessed?” Her voice held the familiar strains of a Fereldan accent.

“Normally we only worry that mages will fall victim to possession,” He crouched to finger the scattered remnants of the recruit’s breastplate, “I have heard of blood mages, or demons in solid form, who could summon others into unwilling hosts,” he shook his head and stood again. It was something he had prayed never to see again after Kinloch Hold. But possession of a non-mage? Worse, a templar, even if not an ordained one? “I had not thought one of our own would be susceptible.”

She rolled her eyes, “With what I’ve bumped into in Kirkwall, nothing surprises me anymore.”

Even a lifelong templar would have been surprised, but Cullen chose to ignore the irreverent comment. Perhaps the group deserved some trust and explanation after assisting rather than running. Most would never have dared face creatures that were typically the sole responsibility of the templars.

“I am Knight-Captain Cullen. I thank you for your assistance. I have been conducting an investigation of some of our recruits who have gone missing.” He glanced over the evidence of the camp, “Wilmod was the first to return. I had hoped to confront him quietly, out of sight.”

The woman raised her eyebrows, “Clearly that went incredibly well for you. If you didn’t know the recruit was possessed, why draw your sword on him?”

“He went missing for a few days. He had only been back a short time when he left again secretly. It set off some warning bells. I meant to scare him into a confession. He had to believe my threats were genuine.”

She seemed to be willing to accept the explanation, “Do you know what happened to Wilmod while he was gone then?”

“Obviously more than I had anticipated. Wilmod has never been fully… convinced of the Order’s rules. Mages cannot be our friends. They must always be watched. I thought Wilmod might be meeting with some old friends who had escaped the Circle.”

She frowned at him, “I’ve got friends who are mages. Are you saying they need to ‘always be watched’ as well?”

Cullen snapped his gaze to meet the woman’s. Perhaps she _thought_ she knew mages. She was Fereldan, maybe she had even known mages from the Circle Tower. Mages who had later submitted to the inevitable temptations of blood magic and demons while templars faced that threat alone. His response was laced with ice, “I was at the Circle Tower in Ferelden during the Blight. I saw first-hand how templars’ trust and leniency can be rewarded. Be glad that you have not.” A snap of disdain slid across his calm at the thought of the dangers that leniency posed, “I still have nightmares of Uldred’s depravities. Templars exist precisely so that you and every other citizen of Thedas will never have to experience those terrors.”

She seemed to sense that she had chosen a poor topic when her brother sent a warning glare her way.

“Your recruits believe that Meredith is conducting some sort of deadly ritual. Is that what happened to Wilmod?” she said with an abrupt change of topic.

“What? That’s preposterous.” Cullen couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurd suggestion. “Recruits can be worse than a weaving circle with their rumours.” His own cohort had believed their initiation would include swimming across the Drakon River in full armour. That theory had appeared after hearing the training officers discussing the story of a mage who had escaped the Circle Tower by swimming across Lake Calenhad. There had been countless other ridiculous theories. The rumours that had filled the barracks in Denerim had been better than any Chantry tale. Reality was less spectacular. “There is a vigil before templars take their arms, but the gravest danger they face is falling asleep.”

The woman smirked in response, “Well, where there’s one demon, there’s usually more.” She clenched a fist, “Where do we start digging?”

“We? Your offer is appreciated, but this is a Templar investigation.”

“The sister of one of the missing recruits asked me to find him. Let me save you some trouble.”

“Then I fear it is time to widen this investigation. My discretion may have cost me one of our best recruits, Wilmod’s friend Keran. They were last seen together at the Blooming Rose. But I had no luck interrogating the ... ah ... young ladies there.” He cursed himself internally at the stumble and glanced down to hide the faint blush in his cheeks as the ghost of a smile twisted the woman’s lips, “I doubt they would know anything of magic or demons in any case.”

The sly smile spread fully across her face, “The brothel, huh? I’d be willing to search there.”

The dwarf behind her tried to supress a chuckle, while her other two companions gave her a matched roll of their eyes.

Cullen gave a short bow, “The Order would truly be in your debt if you helped us with this. No one at the brothel will speak with me for fear I would shut them down for serving our recruits.” He closed his eyes briefly, at least he hadn’t stumbled so much this time, “If you learn what manner of creature did this to Wilmod, please come tell me in the Gallows. I will ensure you are rewarded.”

She gave an ironic salute, “I’d be happy to, Knight-Captain.”

“Your name, Serah?”

“Hawke.”

“I will await word from you, Serah Hawke.”

The small group left the makeshift camp with a cheerful wave. Cullen watched them until they disappeared back down the ridge.

Two Fereldans, proficient in combat, unlike the vast majority of the desperates that filled Darktown. One that just might be an apostate mage. They may not have borne any insignia linking them to the Red Iron mercenary band, but it was the closest lead so far on the mystery Fereldans from so many months back. Their willingness to help a templar had been at least one sign in their favour, but they bore watching indeed.

~~~~

The Red Iron Mercenaries were housed in an unassuming building on the borders between the Docks district and Lowtown. A mercenary in worn leathers leaned against a wall next to a ragged banner that fluttered limply in the breeze. He watched Cullen and his templar escort approach with a suspicion that he didn’t bother even try to conceal. The Red Iron band had been visited by templars when the report had first emerged, but now there was a new lead to follow. It seemed they were not especially welcome.

A middle-aged man sat with his feet up on a desk in the building’s main room. He casually eased himself up on seeing the templars enter and set down the papers he had been reading.

“Sers, how can I be of assistance?”

“I’m looking for information. Do you employ a Fereldan by the name of Hawke? She may work with her brother.”

“Hawke?” He made a show of looking around the otherwise empty room, “No, the name doesn’t sound familiar. There are a lot of Fereldans in Kirkwall these days. Some of them end up working for me, generous soul that I am. I can’t be expected to remember all of them.”

Cullen massaged his forehead to soothe an encroaching headache. Just like the employees of the Blooming Rose, the man seemed to be lying through his teeth.

“You know the consequences for sheltering apostates.”

The mercenary laid a hand on his heart, “On my honour, I don’t have any mages working for me. I wouldn’t dare risk the trouble it would earn me with fine templars such as yourselves.”

“Perhaps you might allow me to check your employment log.” There was always the vague chance that the man might agree.

“All due respect, Knight-Captain, but you don’t have that authority. I wouldn’t even let the Viscount himself do that.” He glanced around him, “Look, I’ve heard talk of apostates in Darktown.”

“Everyone has heard talk of apostates in Darktown, Serah Meeran.” Cullen responded wearily. Not a day went by without new reports appearing on his desk of someone accusing a neighbour of being an apostate. Sometimes the reports were even accurate. If their goal was to waste templar time and resources, it was certainly effective.

“No no, this is reliable information. There’s a clinic that’s just been started for the refugees down there. A really good one, if you get my meaning. Maybe you’ll find your Fereldan there.”

He nodded acknowledgment, “Thank you for your time.”

There was nothing more to be gained here.

~~~~

He was not granted the luxury of the freedom to continue his investigations on his arrival back in the Gallows. A stack of reports that had gathered since his departure in the morning tottered on the desk. There was nothing good to be found there. Yet more reports of apostates that needed to be investigated. Word from the trackers that no trace had been found yet of the escaped Starkhaven apostates. No doubt the squads he had assigned would need to return to resupply with fresh provisions and lyrium soon. And no sign of Knight-Lieutenant Rydal. The man had been missing for almost three days now. It began to look increasingly likely that he had met the same fate as the recruits.

The thought of facing the abominations that were certain to stalk his dreams drove him to claim a patrol route in the Circle that night rather than return to his quarters. There was something close to peace in the halls of the Gallows at night that could never be found during the day. With the newly enforced curfew, the only sounds in the Circle’s corridors were the tap of patrolling boots and the occasional shuffles of servants as they moved about the building. For now, the curfew even seemed to be working. No mages had escaped from the Gallows in the past couple of months.

The Starkhaven mages were still quarantined, at the very least until the apostates were found. A double watch was still posted on their floors, and Cullen’s patrol down the corridors was shadowed by the gentle raps of salutes. After almost a month in the Gallows, the Starkhaveners’ complaints at the restrictions imposed on them had dropped to an almost tolerable level. They seemed polite enough on his occasional interactions with them, and he had received no noteworthy reports from the templars assigned to their floors. Reluctant as he was to trust any of them, he held a faint hope that the Starkhaveners truly had not been corrupted by blood magic. It would certainly be a relief to allow them to filter into the general Kirkwall mage population. Finding sufficient templars to maintain quarantine whilst providing the necessary facilities for the mages to study and spend their free time was not a simple task.

Cullen nodded at the salute offered by Ser Alrik as he passed from the opposite direction on the tranquils’ floor. The quarters dedicated to the tranquils were even quieter than the rest of the Circle. Obedient and respectful to a fault, there was no need for anything more than an occasional patrol over their floor. That worked fine for most templars. There were very few amongst both the mages and templars that didn’t feel mildly uncomfortable in the presence of a tranquil. Cullen was one of the few who didn’t mind them. They were the only mages that he knew with absolute certainty could be trusted.

His patrol completed on the floor below the harrowing chamber. He shivered unconsciously, barely even registering the salute of the guard in full plate stationed at the bottom of the stairs. The dim torchlight that filled the rest of the Gallows seemed somehow duller up that flight of stairs. The relative peace gained from the routine of the patrol unravelled to leave all-too familiar tension in its place. Cullen spun on his heel and swept back down through the levels of the Circle.

He arrived in the Gallows’ main courtyard in time to watch the main portcullis open for the day ahead. A small group of merchants waited idly outside the gates, yawning in the pre-dawn light while they waited for permission to begin setting up their stalls. It had been too much to hope that this Hawke might have already found evidence worth reporting to him. The punctual reports of a templar could hardly be expected from someone who was at best a mercenary and at worst an apostate refugee.

Cullen detoured briefly past his quarters and the bathhouse to refresh himself for the day ahead. The daily lyrium ration wiped away the last dregs of fatigue not lost to the chill water of the bathhouse. With little option but to wait for news, Cullen returned instead to his office.

He was absorbed in reviewing requisitions when, a number of hours later, a hesitant Knight-Templar appeared in the doorway, “Knight-Captain, there’s a woman loitering in the main courtyard. She was here yesterday too. She was bothering the recruits until Knight-Corporal Elise sent her away. My Knight-Corporal thought you might want to find out what she’s doing here.”

“Did she say who she was?”

“No, Ser. She just says she’s looking for her brother.”

The Knight-Templar trailed behind him as he re-entered the main courtyard. Any coolness from earlier in the day had long since been lost in the blazing sunshine trapped by the sandstone walls. A young woman paced impatiently in a loose ring of Knights-Templar. At a gesture from Cullen, the guards dispersed. Cullen faced the woman with folded arms and a frown.

“My templars tell me you have been harassing the recruits. Explain to me why I shouldn’t have you detained by the city guard.”

“I just want to find my brother, Messere. The Knight-Commander threw me out when I asked her if I could see him. I wanted to see if any of the other recruits knew where he was.”

“Surely you know that permission is required to visit the Circle or recruits while they train. You would not be allowed any further into the Gallows than this courtyard.”

“But he’s missing! Someone offered to help me find him, but I couldn’t just sit and do nothing. The other templars said you're the Knight-Captain. Can’t you help me find my brother? His name is Keran.”

Perhaps this was the woman of whom Hawke had spoken, “I believe I met this kind stranger of yours. A Serah Hawke?”

She nodded vigorously, “That’s right.”

He sighed, “She will bring word to the Gallows when she has news. You may wait in the courtyard until then. Do not interrupt the recruits again.” Cullen called over a templar guard, “Watch her. Fetch me if she starts disturbing the recruits or if a Serah Hawke comes looking for me.”

A backwards glance as he walked away showed the woman pacing impatiently while the templar guard split his attention between her and the rest of the courtyard. The remainder of the requisitions still awaited his attention on his desk, but it became harder to concentrate as the day wore on. For all he knew, this Hawke had been paid in advance and had been leaving Kirkwall, never to be seen again, when her small group came across him. Without the assistance of a neutral party to question the Blooming Rose employees, it would be hard to track the movements of the missing recruits.

He had been staring distractedly at the same report for more time than it deserved when the same Knight-Templar as earlier appeared in the doorway.

“Knight-Captain! A recruit just turned up at the docks asking after you.”

Cullen dropped the report and strode back into the brilliant sunshine of the main courtyard. With a sigh of relief, he watched as Keran made his way up the stairway from the docks. Much like Wilmod had, Keran looked pale. It was reassuring to know that one recruit had reappeared, even if the others and Knight-Lieutenant Rydal were still missing. But if it hadn’t been for his hesitant stride, Cullen could almost believe Keran was unharmed. Perhaps he had not suffered the same fate as Wilmod?

The woman broke away from her anxious pacing and raced towards her brother to envelop him in an embrace. Cullen stood back and watched with folded arms. It seemed unjust to begin interrogating her brother in front of her.

“Knight-Captain!” A cheerful voice called out to him from the main gate. Hawke and her companions ambled up the stairs a short distance behind Keran. She plastered on a sunny smile as she approached, “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

Cullen turned to face her fully as his heart lurched, “What? What is it?” He dropped his arms and his fingers itched with the temptation to draw his sword.

“Good news, Keran is safe. Bad news, half of your recruits may have been possessed by demons. But we did kill the blood mage who did it.”

“Sweet blood of Andraste!” The oath slipped out before he could stop it as his heart threatened to drop out of his chest. _The Gallows cannot become another Kinloch Hold_ , he thought forcefully. If as many as half the recruits were abominations, they could raze the Circle to the ground.

Keran’s sister took a long step back from him, “D-demons? Did you say something about the recruits and demons?”

“I didn’t want to tell you, Macha.” Keran said dejectedly, “They... they were horrible. Those mages see the rest of us as ants to be crushed. They won’t stop until they’ve destroyed the Chantry and the templars forever.”

“Not all mages are like that,” objected Hawke. Her brother hissed another warning that fell on deaf ears.

No doubt she spoke of her mage ‘friends’ again. Cullen frowned at her, “True, not every mage gives in to temptation, but none are ever free of it.” If she was a mage, she ought to understand that more than most. If not, it was important for her to understand, “At any time, any mage could become a monster, from the lowest apprentice to the most seasoned enchanters. Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me.”

Keran’s sister seemed shocked, “Surely that’s a little harsh.”

“Perhaps it might seem that way. But they are weapons. They have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique.” The efficacy of the Templars’ protection meant that the average person never understood the true dangers of magic. Face down a mage who could as easily bring down a building as light a candle, or see the carnage left behind by an abomination, and that opinion might change.

“I admit, that does reduce their bargaining position.” Hawke allowed, “But there must be some middle ground.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps mages need a better education as to why the Chantry functions as it does. I will look into it.” It would certainly be nice if the mages of the Circle showed more understanding of why templars were necessary. He turned to meet Keran’s gaze. Was there a demon behind those eyes? “For now, Keran, unless it is proven you are free of demons, I must strip you of your commission immediately.”

Keran’s sister stepped forward to put herself protectively in front of him, “No! You can’t really think that! Keran’s fine, he’s safe.”

“Please, Ser. I tried to resist. I never took anything they offered.”

The words echoed in Cullen’s skull and he flinched. He knew all too well about resisting the offers of demons. About facing temptation after temptation. He could have broken just like Beval or Farris. Had Keran? At a loss, he turned to Hawke. Perhaps she had seen enough to make a judgement.

“We conducted tests on Keran,” she commented, “He’s not possessed. He can stay in the Order.”

 _Tests?_ The mage prison of Aeonar had ‘tests’ to check for possession. Or perhaps she spoke of magical means. “I hesitate to ask what methods you used that you are so certain.” He responded with suspicion, “Still, you have done much for us by stopping these blood mages. I will heed your request. If he has shown no signs of demonic possession in ten years’ time, Keran will become eligible for full Knighthood.” Ten years was more time than any demon would be willing to hide.

Keran’s sister clasped Hawke’s hands warmly, “Thank you, Serah. Again. But I do not know if I can reward you as you deserve.”

Cullen waved her away, “I will handle that, miss.” Whether or not this Hawke was an apostate, she had helped the Order, where so many in Kirkwall seemed only too happy to hinder them, “You have done the Order a great service. We will not forget it. Come to the Gallows tomorrow and payment will be provided.”

She grinned in response, “Much appreciated, Knight-Captain. Oh, and by the way, I left one of the conspirators for you. She’s a p-…” she coughed to pre-empt that blush that rose in Cullen’s cheeks, “A lady working at the Blooming Rose. Idunna. You might want to send some templars to pick her up. Maybe she can tell you where your other missing recruits are.”

He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck, “Thank you again for your assistance, Serah.”

Keran wandered off to join the small cluster of recruits that had gathered in the courtyard after their morning training sessions. He was greeted with happy exclamations and slaps on the back that sent him stumbling. But Cullen couldn’t help but watch each one of them with a combination of suspicion and dismay. Somehow, they would have to find a way to screen each recruit in the Gallows for signs of possession. The news brought by Hawke could hardly have been worse for the Templar Order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In general, I'd prefer to use canon from the game, but there's a little bit of poetic licence in the conversations and events in the chapter. Hopefully it'll smooth out some of the gaps between the available conversations between Hawke and Cullen.


	11. Closing Ranks

**August 9:31 Dragon**

Cullen’s second visit to the Blooming Rose had been an immeasurable improvement on his first. Leading a squad of templars, he had confronted the remorseful proprietor. She had been eager to assist this time, even without the threat of city guard involvement. Much to their surprise and pleasure, they had seized the conspirator with no resistance. The satisfaction of bringing in a dangerous apostate without any loss of life had barely been tarnished by the sight of a templar sitting at the bar when they arrived.

Now Idunna sat in a chair in a meeting hall of the Circle, flanked by Knights-Templar at either side and with a third behind her. Each stood with gauntleted hands resting on the pommels of their swords. The points might have rested on the worn flagstones, but each had a razor-sharp concentration that would see her dead before any spell could be completed.

Idunna glanced between the templars around her, pointedly examining the blades to either side of her seat. She faced a forbidding panel of interrogators. Cullen stood with folded arms in front of her, accompanied by a grim-faced Lovett, while Meredith paced restlessly at the back of the room.

“So many senior templars. Why bother with the formalities? If you’re going to kill me, just get on with it.” The words were nonchalant enough, but her voice was edged with a quiver that she couldn’t quite hide.

Meredith stopped pacing, “We do not intend to kill you. Whether you force us to that outcome or not is entirely up to you, apostate.”

The door to the room creaked open and the templars flanking it stepped to either side to allow Orsino and his companions to walk through. Enchanter Anural, a diminutive elf new to the title, looked nervous even being in the same room as both an apostate blood mage and so many templars. In contrast, Senior Enchanter Pelavin’s face bore the veiled indifference that so many senior mages seemed to cultivate when interacting directly with templars. It was an attitude that had no doubt been the source of many a conflict. Cullen left them to their comfortable illusion of superiority. In the end, the templars had a duty to oversee the Circle, regardless of how the mages acted.

“Well, Meredith, here we are,” Orsino said as he walked over to join her.

Meredith inspected Anural and Pelavin, “Ah, the spirit magic experts.”

“They are. Now would you care to explain why you need us?”

Meredith waved a hand to indicate the seated apostate, “Unfortunately, we are in need of your magical expertise. This apostate assisted in causing the demonic possession of one of our recruits. Possibly more.”

Orsino looked startled, “Possession? Of a non-mage?” He glanced over to his companions for confirmation.

“Blood magic, Orsino,” growled Meredith, “Time and again you claim that few mages resort to it. And time and again you are proven wrong. I have long since stopped believing your protests.”

Orsino didn’t seem to know where to glare at Meredith or the offending apostate in the chair. Idunna wisely chose to stay silent and avoid drawing attention her way.

“Possession of a non-mage is possible, but exceedingly rare,” commented Pelavin.

“I am unpleasantly aware that it’s possible, Senior Enchanter.” The sounds and images of Wilmod’s transformation marched through Cullen’s mind briefly, “The question is rather, is it possible to safely test for it?”

“A demon cannot help but defend its host,” suggested Anural cautiously. She seemed to fold into herself under the combined gaze of three senior templars, “Any attack, magical or otherwise, would cause it to seize control.”

“Could it be provoked by training drills?” Cullen questioned with a sinking stomach.

Lovett shifted anxiously with a muted clank of armour. Recruits wouldn’t stand a chance if an abomination appeared amongst them.

She dropped her eyes from their intense scrutiny, “It would have to be a plausible threat to life. Your training drills probably wouldn’t be enough to draw it out.”

A resigned sigh drew their combined attention back to Idunna, “The only reason I helped Tarohne was because I detested her less than templars. I’m sure I’ll be dead soon anyway, so I might as well help you. I can recognise demonic possession for you without tempting the demon to seize control.”

“I will not tolerate your foul blood magic in the Circle, Maleficar,” snapped Meredith. Her hands convulsed once as though itching to draw her sword. Cullen could understand the temptation. Even the suggestion of blood magic in the Circle triggered a faint nausea in his stomach. In respect of the senior Circle mages in the room, none of the templars in the room had enforced a denial of magic. It was hard now to supress the internal voice that begged to pull on the lyrium in his blood.

She leaned back in her chair, “There’s not much I can do for you beyond that.” She paused, “I can point out the recruits that I sent to Tarohne. I know she didn’t have anyone else doing what I did for her.”

Lovett finally spoke up in a voice taut with anger, “How many did you corrupt?”

“Your recruits came to me willingly enough, templar,” she responded scornfully, “I sent no more than ten of them to her. Never any full templars. Her spells barely worked on the recruits. It would never have worked on a templar.  Too much lyrium in you,” she shivered unconsciously.

Anural nodded in agreement, but Pelavin seemed unconvinced, “Unless she was willing to sacrifice her subjects to gain the power of their blood. Perhaps she even did for this to work on your recruits.”

Cullen froze. _Maker, may that not have happened._ Pelavin’s idle suggestion called to mind thoughts he had been avoiding. If the missing recruits and Knight-Lieutenant Rydal had still not reappeared, perhaps they lay now in some blood-stained heap in a secluded corner of Kirkwall. _Maker, please may it not be so._

Idunna seemed unaware of the tension, “I honestly don’t know what happened to the recruits. I imagine Tahrone’s dead by now, but I can send you to the same place I sent that mercenary.”

“See that you do. And you will provide us with the names and descriptions of those you sent to your maleficar ally,” Meredith turned to Orsino and his colleagues, “Meanwhile, I expect you to find some way to safely examine those recruits that may have been possessed.”

Orsino looked dubious, but Anural and Pelavin turned to each other with glances that suggested they were eager for the challenge.

Idunna made to stand up. A blade flashed to her throat and she froze.

“Sit,” snapped Cullen, “Or we may have to reconsider your claims of willingness to assist us.”

She held out her hands and eased gently back, “I meant no harm.”

Meredith paced forwards to stand in front of the chair, “You claim you never corrupted any templars. Where then is Knight-Lieutenant Rydal?”

She looked confused, “A Knight-Lieutenant? I’m sure some visited me, but I never sent them to Tahrone.”

“We need to search this blood mage’s sanctuary,” Cullen sighed and kneaded his temple. He gestured to the templars standing over her, “Take her back to her cell. Provide her with paper to list the recruits.”

One of the Knights-Templar sheathed his sword and placed a gauntleted hand on her shoulder. Cullen recognised the familiar tingle in the air as the templar’s power was channelled through the apostate to purge any mana that might have accumulated since she was brought in. She was pulled unsteadily to her feet and led from the room. The armed templars shadowed her, swords still cautiously ready.

Anural and Pelavin’s muted discussion stilled for a minute. In Kinloch Hold, Cullen had once been told by a mage that there was a smell to templars. Like the air after lightning. That smell was all the stronger when a templar exerted their power. No mage could fail to recognise it and feel unease when faced with the evidence of a power that could entirely negate theirs.

Following a dismissive nod from Meredith, the mages filed from the room, eager to avoid spending any longer around agitated templars than was required. With the mages gone, Cullen finally felt able to relax. He dropped his folded arms, but the frown remained carved into his features. It had been too much to hope that there might finally have been good news.

Lovett’s grimace reflected Cullen’s, “Knight-Commander. Knight-Captain. I will understand entirely if you wish to relieve me of my position. I can recommend another replacement”

“You have long been a loyal member of the Order, Ser Lovett. A month of duty guarding this apostate Idunna’s cell in addition to your duties as training officer ought to be sufficient.” Meredith narrowed her eyes and her voice sharpened, “But I may not be so merciful if such a thing is allowed to occur again in the Gallows.”

“Thank you, Knight-Commander, Knight-Captain,” A crisp salute echoed the words as he turned on his heel and left the room.

“Well done, Cullen,” Meredith remarked, “Without your prompt response, the Gallows could have been infested with abominations. I am pleased to see that you have lived up to my expectations of you as Knight-Captain so far.”

“Thank you, Knight-Commander, but not all the credit is mine to claim.”

“Perhaps not, but a good leader makes use of all the tools available to them. Unfortunately, your work is not yet done. Tomorrow you must search this blood mage’s hideaway.” She threw the final words over her should as she left the meeting chamber, “If the Maker is feeling kind, we might yet find the remaining missing recruits.”

~~~~

The Gallows’ main courtyard was as busy as always in the noon sunshine. Kinloch Hold had been an isolated Circle. Visitors were vanishingly rare. But somehow, the Gallows was a centre for trade with a baffling number of visitors that made the security of the Circle a never-ending headache. Cullen never failed to be amazed at the number of civilians that attempted to enter Templar Hall, or worse, the Circle itself.

Thankfully, one visitor had the sense to wait in the public areas of the Gallows rather than wandering into the Circle or Templar Hall. Hawke sat on a wall kicking her heels as she watched the movements of visitors and inhabitants of the Gallows. She looked over to him as he made his way towards her, “Here I was thinking you’d forgotten all about your promise to pay me.”

“The Order keeps its promises, Serah Hawke.” He dropped the coin purse into her waiting hand. She smiled with satisfaction at the distinctive clink of coin.

He inclined his head in a brief bow, “Thank you again for your assistance. There are few in this city who seem willing to aid the Order.”

“Well, once someone admits to consorting with demons, it’s a little easier to take sides.”

“That’s a surprisingly unpopular viewpoint,” Cullen responded wearily. How people could be faced with the dangers of magic and still have such sympathy was beyond him. Still, the naivete he himself had demonstrated, even following years of templar training, went some way to demonstrating how oblivious the average citizen would be, “It used to be that templars were welcomed wherever they went for defending people from dark magics. Now the townsfolk are as likely to slam their doors as offer us a bed.” His final words were laced with distaste, “The image of the poor chained apprentice is a powerful one. And one the mages are more than willing to exploit. Sadly, few people see through that manipulation.”

“Who am I to argue with a templar on matters of magic.” Hawke tossed the coin purse lightly and her smile widened, “I appreciate the generosity.” She jumped lightly down from her perch, “Thanks, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen watched her leave. If she was an apostate mage, she was remarkably willing to associate with the Templar Order. Surely no apostate in their right mind would be so willing to aid them. If it was an attempt at disguise it was a confusing one.

~~~~

The familiar tug of fatigue drew Cullen back to his quarters that night to the sound of the midnight bell. He stood for a moment in the doorway and shivered. Every time he blinked, the dim torchlight seemed to twist the shadows of the small room into the warped forms of abominations. He turned on a heel and paced back down through Templar Hall and into the Circle. Men were always needed to reinforce patrols.

This time, the quiet of the Circle at night was not as reassuring as he had hoped. Flickering torches cast jumping shadows in corners in the same way that had left him so jittery in his first months in the Gallows. Ten months later, and he had thought that familiarity had finally eliminated that weakness. But the same tension that so often tightened his shoulders had returned. He scowled at the empty corridors. The templar posted at an intersection cringed and pulled himself to attention with a crisp salute and a mumbled apology.

Cullen lengthened his stride and strode through a few more hallways. Furtive sounds were almost lost in the tap of his boots and rustle of his robes. He drew to a halt and cocked an ear. Hushed voices, somewhere down a side passage. He paced a few quiet steps down the passage.  The voices resolved into the sound of a man and a woman speaking. He carefully turned the corner, boots barely making a noise as he set each foot down.

The sight around the corner was entirely different to what he had expected, and his cheeks reddened despite a sudden burst of anger. He had thought maybe templar guards talking on duty, or even mages breaking curfew. Instead, a man and a woman were sharing a passionate kiss in a shadowed corner at the end of the corridor. Torchlight glinted off the hard planes of metal and touched on the hem of yellow robes.

Over the woman’s shoulder, the templar’s eyes flicked open and widened in panic. His hands leapt away as though burned and he jumped back from the mage.

“Maker’s balls! Knight-Captain. S-Ser. Um…” he spluttered.

The mage whipped around and recoiled, “I should… go.”

“Stay, mage,” barked Cullen. He snapped his gaze to the Knight-Templar’s, “Fraternisation is strictly forbidden, as you should be aware.”

The templar looked desperate to break his gaze away. He flicked his eyes up to the ceiling in a brief prayer and back, “I’m aware, Ser.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose in a brief attempt to hide the fading blush, “And if there had been some disturbance whilst you were …” he coughed lightly, “distracted here?”

“I don’t have any excuse, Ser,” the templar let out a pained exhalation, “I will accept any punishment you give.” Behind the resigned words, there was a touch of fear in his eyes. Meredith harshly punished fraternisation in the Gallows. Cullen could almost sense the man counting the days he would face without lyrium.

“One month,” the templar flinched before Cullen even had a chance to finish his sentence, “Gallows courtyard duty. Main gate watch. I expect you to carefully consider what it is to be a templar.”

“Thank you, Knight-Captain,” the relief left the man breathless. That faded as he glanced over to the anxious mage beside him with a worried look, “Please, it was my fault. Have mercy on her.”

Severe punishment for mages under Meredith’s command in the Gallows was tranquility. The mage couldn’t even look at him.

“Six weeks confined to quarters for fraternisation and breaking curfew. Your staff and grimoire will be confiscated for the duration,” Cullen snapped, “If I ever discover you two even _looking_ at each other again, you will wish the Knight-Commander had found you first.”

As far as Cullen was concerned, the punishment was light. Desire was a glaring chink in a templar’s armour that a demon would be delighted to exploit. Whether the templar had started the affair or the mage had seduced him, the risk should have been obvious. It should have been obvious to himself two years ago. Thank the Maker he had never dared fall as far as this templar.

He waved a dismissal before his remaining restraint fractured, “Complete your watch duty, Knight-Templar. And you, mage, consider yourself confined to your quarters from now.”

The templar paused only the grab his gauntlets from the floor before rushing off a sensible distance behind the mage.

Any hope of Cullen finding peace in the routine of patrol was lost. He strode instead to the more certain tranquillity of Templar Hall’s chantry.

The chantry was dark and empty, lit only by the flickering light of the eternal flame in its brazier. Even the ever-present affirmed had left for the night. He dropped into a kneeling position at the foot of the statue of Andraste. With his forehead resting on the cool steel of his clasped gantlets, he closed his eyes and let whispered stanzas of the chant drown the chaos in his mind.

The sound of the bells calling out the time of night occasionally filtered through his whispered prayers. The cautious steps of a chantry sister approached at one point in the early hours of morning. She paused on the edge of disturbing him, then retreated just as carefully, leaving him to his private prayers. He approached the end of the Canticle of Trials to the sound of the affirmed preparing the chantry for the day and finally opened his eyes. His knees were stiff from hours spent kneeling on the cold flagstones in armour, but the familiar feeling was almost comforting.

The cold water of the bathhouse and his half-measure of lyrium didn’t have quite the efficacy of the previous day. But fatigue was an old friend now. Better that than facing the dreams that he knew would come.

~~~~

Darktown had improved little in the months since Cullen had last visited. The warren of passageways and open spaces was perhaps more organised than it had been previously. But the furtive stares that watched them were no happier to see a squad of templars than they had been previously.

The entrance to the blood mage’s sanctuary lay at the end of a non-descript corridor off one of main hubs in Darktown. The sheer arrogance of hiding in such a poorly concealed location was staggering. He pushed through the rough wooden doorway, followed closely by Knight-Lieutenant Karras and the squad led by Knight-Corporal June. A tight maze of corridors led off from the main entrance, but their route was clearly marked by the charred signs of spent magical rune traps or more mundane physical traps. Occasional piles of decaying rags marked the remains of slain demons. Hawke and her companions had certainly not been subtle in their assault. Facing demons without the benefit of templar training and abilities made the woman and her companions either mad or more competent than he had first guessed.

The passageways finally opened to overlook a long chamber marked with the signs of a pitched battle. Two dead bodies were sprawled on the floor, along with the scattered signs of a handful of summoned demons. The tingle of spent mana raised the hairs on his neck, a full day later, reflected by charring and scars on the walls and floor. To emerge unscathed from a battle like that without magical healing and protection or the power of lyrium was nigh on impossible. Yet Hawke and her companions hadn’t even looked singed when they had arrived in the Gallows.

Given that Hawke had been intent on retrieving Keran, Cullen found it unlikely that they would have spent time looking through the entire sanctuary, especially given Darktown’s maze-like tangle of passageways and chambers. At a gesture, the squad split off to search the area. Karras and Cullen stayed in the main chamber and inspected the bodies. One woman, one man, armed with simple carved mage’s staffs. Cullen wandered over to the body of the woman, lurid makeup rivalling anything he had seen on the employees of the Blooming Rose.

Karras strode up to join him, “Damn impressive for those mercenaries to have killed these robes without us,” he commented idly.

A call from a small corridor leading off the main chamber pulled them away from inspecting the bodies. A Knight-Templar stood outside a small doorway with a grim frown, “You need to see this, Knight-Captain, Knight-Lieutenant.”

Cullen steeled himself for what would no doubt be bad news. The room was dimly lit by light spilling in from the corridor outside. A man in simple tunic and breeches lay on a raised pallet in the corner of the room. His eyes were closed, but a blank smile twisted his lips. The familiarity of the empty look was chilling, “Ser Rydal. He has been bewitched by a demon.”

“Andraste’s flaming sword!” cursed Karras, “Where is it?”

Cullen’s sword rang as he drew it from its sheath and rested the edge of the blade against the man’s neck, “Show yourself, demon.”

An amorphous form oozed out of the shadows in the opposite corner of the room. A single pinprick of burning purple marked what was probably its head, “Why so aggressive?” Its voice drawled with syrupy slowness, “Don’t you want to rest? I can feel how tired you are.”

Cullen heard the ring of metal as Karras and the Knight-Templar drew their swords behind him. A comforting hum in the air marked the enforcement of a denial of magic as they pulled on the lyrium in their blood. The echo of lyrium in the air pulled Cullen out of the brief hyper-awareness of the fatigue from two nights without sleep.

The demon shrieked in anger as Karras’ and Cullen’s blades leapt forward almost simultaneously to pierce the demon’s shapeless form. Even that shriek was laced with a lethargic edge that offered the peace of rest. Both their sword arms dipped and Karras staggered a step. Frost inched up Cullen’s blade and tingled on his skin. The Knight-Templar could do nothing from the doorway and instead called down a smite on the demon, although he laid a supporting hand on the doorframe beside him as his eyelids drooped and his knees buckled. Despite the call of sloth, the demon could do little in in such a confined space. Quick strikes from Cullen and Karras reduced it to a gently steaming puddle of black slime.

Within seconds of the demon’s fall, Rydal coughed weakly and the empty smile slid from his face. Karras removed his gauntlet and laid his fingers on the man’s neck. He shook his head, “Dead,” he stood and spat to one side, “Void take those maleficarum.”

Cullen gestured to the Knight-Templar outside the door, “Retrieve the body. We must return him to the Gallows.”

Another pair of templars pounded up the corridor and drew to a halt on seeing they weren’t needed. They were closely followed by Ser June with a bright smile on her face, “Sers, we’ve found four recruits. Alive, thank the Maker.”

She led them to a small sub-chamber hidden around a blind corner in the maze of corridors. A few of the Knights-Templar offered supporting arms to the weak and shivering recruits.

“Andraste be praised,” Cullen murmured. He approached the most lucid-looking of the group, “Were there any more of you here, Recruit?”

“Wilmod and Keran most recently, Knight-Captain,” he responded, drawing himself to attention with the support of the templar beside him, “Yarrow was here before me. I don’t know what happened to her.”

“Thank you, Recruit. We’ll get you back to the Gallows where you can get some rest.”

June called him to one side, out of hearing of the freed recruits, “I can guess what happened, Ser. There’s a lot of blood in one of the other rooms off this corridor. No bodies, but we all know what it means.”

Cullen nodded in sad acknowledgement. It was hardly surprising, although he had prayed to be proven wrong. More lives lost to blood magic. _Will there be no end?_ He sent up brief thanks that the recruits in this chamber hadn’t suffered anything more than confinement. Treatment at the hands of blood mages could be much, much crueller.

Four recruits found. Wilmod and Knight-Lieutenant Rydal dead. Keran safe in the Gallows, and Yarrow likely dead. That left three recruits unaccounted for, either returned to the Gallows or dead along with the rest. The death toll from blood magic was thankfully small. This time. He prayed that it would remain so when another mage inevitably fell to temptation.

~~~~

Their return to the Gallows was welcomed with grateful relief by Knight-Lieutenant Lovett. He hustled the recruits off to the recruit barracks with a subtle escort of Knights-Templar shadowing behind.

Orsino paced impatiently in the corridor outside Cullen’s office, “Finally. I have better things to do than help you clean up your mess, Knight-Captain. Anural and Pelavin have information for you.”

The sharp sound of Meredith’s stride echoed through the corridor, “Orsino. Leave us.”

Orsino looked insulted but he huffed and walked away as Cullen followed Meredith into her office, “Knight-Commander?”

“I am delighted to hear you found more of the missing recruits. What of Ser Rydal?”

“Dead, Knight-Commander. He submitted to the temptations of a Sloth demon,” Cullen couldn’t prevent disdain from colouring his words.

Meredith frowned with irritation, “Then he will not be able to answer for his crimes,” she waved a piece of paper in her hand, “The apostate provided a list of names for us. In light of her assistance, I have decided to show mercy. For now,” she paced restlessly beside her desk, “Even the idea of blood mages contaminating the Gallows in such a way is intolerable. I have no doubt that you agree whole-heartedly, Cullen.”

“Completely, Knight-Commander,” Cullen responded vehemently, “Security must be tightened to ensure it cannot happen again.”

“I am glad we’re of one mind on this. Ser Lovett has already been informed that recruits are now strictly confined to the Gallows unless accompanied. We must also screen new recruits with a strong history of magic in their family.”

Cullen nodded cautiously, “It will be difficult, but it can be done. It will be hard to keep recruitment up.”

“Nonetheless, we must see it done to ensure the Gallows’ safety. I must also insist that our men are questioned weekly.”

“Weekly?” Cullen couldn’t help the surprised outburst, “The officers are stretched thinly as it is, Knight-Commander.”

“I welcome your input, Knight-Captain,” she snapped, “But do not question me on this. I will not have dissent in the ranks.”

Cullen saluted, “It will be done, Knight-Commander.” His mind raced as he began planning schedules and duties for already overworked officers.

She handed him another list, “I have promoted the following templars to officer positions. You may assign them to additional duties as needed.”

Cullen skimmed the names. It was not the selection he would have chosen, but they were all staunch supporters of Meredith. In these troubled times, perhaps she believed that unity was more important?

“Dismissed, Cullen. I look forward to your report on the resolution of this recruit situation.”

Cullen flipped back to the apostate’s list. Ten names. Maker willing, there would be no more abominations. _Maker willing_.

~~~~

Cullen and Pelavin stood on opposite ends of a large cell in the depths of the Gallows. The room’s layout was a grim echo of an apprentice’s harrowing, missing only the bowl of glowing lyrium. Templars stood with unnatural stillness around the perimeter of the room, faces concealed behind full helms.

A confused recruit was led in to the chamber. His breathing elevated slightly at the sight of the full squad lining the walls. He looked over to Cullen, the only un-helmeted templar in the room, “Knight-Captain, I thought I was just here to answer questions?” he asked cautiously, voice squeaking on the final word.

“You will, in a manner of speaking.”

So far, three of the recruits rescued from the blood mage’s sanctuary had been cleared. Much like Keran, they would now be eligible for Knighthood in ten years. Now the fourth of the group was gently directed into a seat in the middle of the room.

At a stiff nod from Cullen, Pelavin took a step forwards. He could muster up nothing more than that nod. The screaming tension at allowing a mage to cast magic on templar recruits was drawing to a fever pitch.

He felt a hum in the air as the mage summoned a crackle of lightening to dance around his fingertips. The lyrium in his blood sang in response, and it took all his fracturing restraint to resist the temptation to respond with blade or templar abilities. Before the recruit was able to react, Pelavin cast the lightning through the air to dance over the recruit’s skin. The path of the lightning cast the room in a painful actinic light that reflected off polished breastplates and left the metallic taste of mana in the air.

The recruit hissed in pain and hunched over his chest. One breath. Two. And he straightened with a mixture of pain and confusion in his eyes.

Pelavin smiled grimly, “Safe.”

“Thank you, recruit.” Cullen unfolded his arms long enough to gesture the recruit out of the room, “Report to Knight-Lieutenant Lovett.”

Cullen rubbed at a pounding headache as they waited for the final recruit. Here lay the greatest risk. This recruit was the only one apart from Wilmod who had returned to the Gallows. She had reappeared unnoticed and unreported almost two week ago. Unlike Wilmod, her behaviour had been entirely normal. The templars around the room imperceptibly shifted a step closer to the empty chair in preparation.

Pelavin seemed unconcerned. He looked over to where Cullen waited tensely.

“You don’t like me, Knight-Captain,” he stated.

Cullen didn’t bother to look at the mage, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Allow me to rephrase that. You don’t like what I am.”

Cullen did turn to look at him then, “Magic has more capacity for harm than anything else in this world,” he snapped, “But until you fall to temptation, I have no quarrel with you.”

Pelavin laughed incredulously, “’Until’? I’m more than twice your age and have yet to be stupid enough to listen to a demon. You, on the other hand, will be lucky if you live to my age and still keep your mind.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from more than one of the attending templars. Taunting a templar, let alone a senior one, with their inevitable fate in that way was something close to a death wish.

“Careful, mage. All it takes is one moment of weakness. Better mages than you have failed. When you or one of your fellows does fall, the Order will be there to make sure you don’t bring the city down with you. Every one of us would gladly sacrifice our minds for that duty.”

“If you truly believe that, why not just kill us all in our sleep and save yourselves the trouble?”

“We’re not executioners, Senior Enchanter,” Cullen hissed with anger, “We’re peacekeepers. Guardians. Protectors. Violence is our last response, not our first.”

“Yes, ‘blessed are the peacekeepers’, I’ve heard it countless times,” he said sarcastically, he looked around to the roomful of armed and armoured templars, “And a fine job you do of it.”

A few of the templars shifted angrily. Cullen’s headache threatened to morph into a full-blown migraine and the confines of the room seemed to press even closer around him. Pelavin’s words held an echo of Uldred’s constant taunts. Ever so slightly, his hands tremored. If the mage was looking to provoke them, he was succeeding dangerously well.

The tension broke abruptly as the final recruit was led into the room. The templars snapped dangerous gazes from Pelavin to the approaching recruit. Unlike the previous four, she seemed healthy and whole, if nervous to be brought to such an out-of-the way location in the Circle’s depths.

Again, Pelavin summoned a crackle of lightning and cast it towards the recruit.

One breath. Two. Three. Four.

She twitched, and her skin bulged grotesquely. A grating laugh filled the room. The sound was somehow not at all drowned by the ring of steel as blades were drawn. Suddenly, there seemed to be little to separate the room from a harrowing chamber.

Pelavin took a few hasty steps back as a sword blade from one of the templars pierced the abomination’s heart and pinned it to the back of the chair. The cruel laughter broke off. Cullen clenched his fists to hide the tremble as he struggled to contain the gasp of his breath. _Maker please, not now._ He brutally squashed the fear behind a tightly woven barrier of the lyrium song.

Pelavin chuckled acidly as he did his best to stay as far from the glittering blades as possible, “’Peacekeepers’ indeed.”

“Out!” barked Cullen.

Pelavin seemed ready to protest, but he opened his mouth only part way before freezing when he met Cullen’s eyes. He took a cautious few steps backwards and sidled between the templars guarding the door to leave the room.

“See that the body is given proper last rites. And then leave.” He commanded with tightly leashed control.

The body was respectfully gathered up and the templars filed out of the room. Not a one dared to meet his scorching gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the 'Enemies Among Us' quest, Hawke wanders off after telling Cullen that half the recruits could be possessed. S/he is a little mercenary about the whole thing, and only ever bothers to help find Keran, so the fate of all the other missing recruits never gets resolved on screen. I chose to believe that Tahrone didn't do a very good job with her crazy plan. But it does give a vague justification for Meredith's paranoia that leads to Cullen's comments about her having closed ranks by Act 2.


	12. Harrowed Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being quite a long chapter, but there was quite a bit I wanted to squash in.

**Kingsway 9:31 Dragon**

Muted humming that bore a vague resemblance to the chant echoed down the corridor. Cullen snuck a sideways glance to the templar posted at the opposite side of the archway. A roguish grin twisted the other man’s mouth and the volume increased a notch. Their watch continued for a full half an hour accompanied by nothing but the off-tune humming before Cullen groaned.

“Maker. Please stop.”

Beval’s grin widened, “I had a bet with Othered to see how long you would last.”

Cullen stifled a laugh, “I hope you lost. We’re on duty. You ought to take it more seriously.”

Beval made a show of looking around the curves of the empty corridors, “So you always say. And here we are. On thrilling guard duty for the next few hours until the evening bell. I don’t see anyone here to reprimand me apart from you, Knight-Templar Cullen Rutherford of illustrious Honnleath, so you can relax for once,” he gave the title a courtly flourish to match his early childhood as the youngest son of a Bann. Cullen’s own rural upbringing had been a never-ending source of amusement for Beval during their years as recruits. He smirked, “I have to be your source of distraction now that your pretty elf mage is gone. Did you ever actually manage an entire conversation with her before she was spirited away by the Wardens?”

Cullen coughed awkwardly as he rubbed the back of his neck, “I have n-no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not,” Beval responded innocently. He turned back to his watch with exaggerated intensity.

Beval managed another half an hour in silence before he opened his mouth again, “I’m glad we weren’t assigned to duty on that big Circle meeting. Listening to mages talk all afternoon just might be more boring than-”

He stopped abruptly as the lyrium in his blood pulsed with such strength that it seemed an almost physical force. One year’s acclimatisation to lyrium meant that the feeling was familiar. Magic. A common enough sensation in a Circle. But this was stronger than anything either of them had ever felt, enough even to be felt on the templars’ floor high above where the mages worked and practiced. They exchanged tense glances.

“An apprentice’s spell gone wrong?” Cullen suggested weakly. His hand drifted towards the long hilt of the greatsword over his shoulder. The gleaming blade had never been drawn in anger, had never been needed outside of training and the few uneventful harrowings he had attended.

“Seems likely,” Beval responded with a nervous laugh. His hand fell to the hilt of the sword at his hip.

The lyrium continued pulsing. At the very edge of hearing, faint rumbles filtered through from the floors below. A trickle of dust and mortar drifted down from the ceiling.

Two full squads of templars pounded down the corridor from the barracks, “Fall in. Now!” Yelled the Knight-Lieutenant as they ran past Cullen and Beval to the mages’ floors below.

The meeting chamber was a charnel house. Streamers of blood haphazardly splashed the walls all the way to the high ceiling. Limp bodies were scattered from the rows of benches around the perimeter. None had made it as far as the room’s doors. The few intact corpses were so charred and bloodstained that it was impossible to tell what colour their robes had originally been. Not a one of the templar bodies in the room was in less than four pieces. Fresh blood painted their torn plate armour a deep arterial red. Some hadn’t even had the chance to draw their weapons.

Beval’s sword clattered from nerveless fingers and he retched in a corner. Cullen felt bile rise in his own throat. He took a few uncontrolled steps backwards until he collided with a wall in a metallic clank.

“Abominations,” whispered shocked voices.

The Knight-Lieutenant seemed paralysed. He shook himself, “Um. Right. We need to find the creature that did this and regroup with the Knight-Commander. Protect the mages as we go.”

The distant sound of terrified screams combined with blood-curdling shrieks as the templars formed back up into their squads. The more experienced templars exchanged looks that said they knew what awaited.

They quickly grew to regret the chantry’s encouragement of combat magic training in the Circles of Magi. Ribbons and clouds of blood sailed in a disconcertingly beautiful dance around mages accompanied by the acrid copper tang of blood magic. And those blood mages that failed to dominate the demons they called were even deadlier. There was only so much that lyrium could offer against the vastly overpowered magic and stomach churning _wrongness_ of abominations. Templars shrieked as flames boiled them in their own armour, bands of force threw them to collide against walls with a sickening crunch and claws ripped through them like paper.

One abomination or cadre of skilled blood mages would have been a surmountable challenge. But the corridors of the Circle Tower held many more. And for every assailant they took down, more waited.

Cullen’s head pulsed in time with the lyrium song. There had seemed to be little point in conserving lyrium and so its melody was now uncomfortably muted. The Knight-Lieutenant limped beside him, sword arm sheared off right through the chainmail. The man had long since lost his shield, and now cradled his sword in his off hand. Cullen was miraculously unscathed, but they had been torn near to pieces by the last abomination. Now there were only six exhausted templars left.

A crowd of distraught apprentices huddled in their dormitory as the templars entered.  They looked for reassurance from their bloodstained guardians and found none. The templars didn’t dare question why the apprentices were alone, and they hadn’t the energy to provide comfort. The Knight-Lieutenant looked at them with despair, “We need to evacuate the apprentices. The Circle is lost.” Words a templar hoped never to have to speak.

The colossal doors to the Circle’s entrance were sealed. The templars pounded on the thick wood and went unanswered. Muted sobs from the youngest apprentices, some no more than six or seven years of age, tore at Cullen’s heart. The Knight-Lieutenant slid weakly to the floor by the door, “I’ll protect ... the … apprentices,” he panted feebly as his eyes drooped. His skin had long since passed from Fereldan pallor to ashen grey, “Knight-Corporal Annlise. Find the Knight-Commander… do what you can … to stop this madness. Keep the demons distracted … until the doors open for us.”

Corridors they had cleared were even more demon and abomination infested as they made their way back up through the Circle Tower. The horror had blanked out any possibility of conscious thought. Instinct and training was all that had been left of them. Now Cullen, Beval, Annlise, and Farris stood back-to-back above the eviscerated body of Hanson, blades held protectively towards a ring of hissing demons. Too tired to speak, too shattered to have any fear left in them. The ranks of demons parted and a figure in immaculate robes of a senior enchanter appeared. With their lyrium reserves depleted long ago, they had no way to deny the magic that tugged at their bones. The world went black.

Cullen woke groggily, limbs stiff and cold and his mind hazy. His breathing felt laboured, as if his armour had shrunk to a size too small and now compressed his chest in its steel grip. He levered himself up from cold flagstones and blinked in confusion at the lurid purple barrier in front of him. He laid a tentative hand on the obstruction. His gauntlet transmitted a faint vibration through his arm and all the way to his boots. Still, dispelling a barrier was a simple task for any templar. He pulled on the lyrium that sang in his blood and … nothing.

A piercing yell echoed from the four walls of Cullen’s quarters. Sheets tangled about him as he tumbled from his bed and fell to his hands and knees on the floor. His hands clenched convulsively, desperate for the hilt of his sword. He laid his forehead on the cool flagstones and felt the scrape of its rough surface on his unarmoured body. Sweat-damp curls growing just a shade too long flopped limply onto the floor. Without the Grey Wardens, the doors may never have opened. Only a handful of the apprentices had survived. That Knight-Lieutenant, dead. One of the few in Kinloch Hold who hadn’t faltered. One of the few who hadn’t cowered from his duty behind the safety of sealed doors while innocent blood washed the walls of the Circle Tower. Anger almost overtook the fear that churned in his mind. _I cannot allow it to happen again._

Harsh breaths scraped a throat that was painfully raw. The Knight-Commander’s own quarters were only a short distance down the corridor. He prayed that the thick intervening walls and doors would have been sufficient.

Dawn found him stretching his tense muscles in morning drills after spending the remainder of the night kneeling in the chantry. The breeze that ruffled freshly trimmed hair was a pleasure after the stuffy confines of the Gallows. The taste of his half-measure of lyrium still danced on his tongue. It was a relief to feel its presence after the memories woken by the nightmare. _Not an addict_ , he prayed, _just prudence_.

The remnants of the dream forced him to stretch himself further and faster. Not a one of his practice opponents that day managed to best him, despite years of experience over him.

He paused long enough to inspect the latest cohorts of recruits as they arrived for their own morning drills. Even with the Knight-Commander’s new restrictions on recruitment, they were well on track to maintaining their growth in numbers. Lovett offered a salute and a satisfied smile as Cullen left for his office.

A templar waited patiently outside, report in her hand.

“Knight-Captain. Word from that clinic in Darktown you ordered us to investigate.”

Cullen led the templar into his office and seated himself behind the desk, “Report.”

“The tip was right, Ser. I got close enough to feel the magic as he was healing one of the patients,” she smiled in smug satisfaction, “No one suspects an elf in a dress of being a templar.”

“Did you get a name?”

“I heard the patients call him Anders, Ser.”

“Anders?” Cullen leaned back in his seat with a startled expression, “A Fereldan?”

After multiple escapes from Fereldan’s Circle, Knight-Commander Greagoir had finally decided they had no choice but to confine Anders in the cells. He had disappeared again a few weeks before the breaking of the Circle Tower.

“Yes, Ser. Others in the clinic mentioned that he’s a Grey Warden. They didn’t know what branch.”

“Maker’s breath. A Grey Warden. He’s finally untouchable if he really is one.” Cullen massaged his forehead, “I’ll need to contact the Wardens to confirm it. Meanwhile, keep an eye on him.”

She offered a salute, “We’ll keep you updated, Ser.”

Last he had heard, Ferelden’s Grey Wardens were still rebuilding under the command of an all-too familiar name. News out of the country was still slow. He had no idea where to even send a message to contact them. Cullen wasn’t sure he wanted to sign his name on a message to her anyway. A letter to the Warden headquarters in Weisshaupt would take months to arrive, longer still to receive a response, if they deigned to respond at all. Even so, he couldn’t risk raising the ire of the Wardens, not with the end of a Blight still so fresh in everyone’s minds.

Cullen penned a courteous letter to the First Warden with all the flowery politeness he could stomach. He had not joined the templars to be a diplomat. Official seals of the Kirkwall Circle and the Templar Order in red and white wax added a final formal flourish to the missive. Perhaps it would help encourage a quick response.

“Knight-Captain Cullen.”

Cullen looked up in confusion at the formal address from Meredith, “Knight-Commander?”

“I would like you to accompany me on the Harrowing scheduled to take place tomorrow evening.”

“I-” Cullen’s voice froze. A host of answers he would have loved to give sped through his mind. _Knights-Captain aren’t responsible for Harrowings. I have duties to attend to. Please, I’d rather not._ And in front of all those excuses, the instinct to comply with the orders of his Knight-Commander.

He had been to every corner of the Gallows since arriving. Apart from the floor containing the Harrowing chamber. He knew he shouted out in his sleep, if perhaps less frequently than when he had first arrived almost a year ago. _Does she know? Has she heard my nightmares?_ His heart dropped. Of course she knew. She had read the report he had written for Knight-Commander Greagoir after the breaking of the Circle.

Meredith recognised his hesitancy, “On Knight-Captain Harmoran’s insistence, you were never assigned to any Harrowings. But my second-in-command must be able to cover all circle duties should I be otherwise engaged. You cannot falter. This is a duty you must face.”

Her words echoed his own bitter prayers when he woke from a particularly traumatic nightmare. Entrenched deference to a commanding officer won out over the excuses, “Yes, Knight-Commander,” the response scraped roughly against his raw throat.

Cullen knew she was right. The Harrowing ritual was a vital part of life in a circle. Through the Harrowings, a mage proved they could resist the temptations of demons, even if that ‘proof’ was questionable. If the thought of a Harrowing chamber sent chills through his blood and froze his muscles, well, it was a weakness he would have to address in service to the order.

He repeated his agreement with a more forceful tone, as much to convince himself as her, “I understand, Knight-Commander.”

“Good.” She placed an itemised schedule in her tight penmanship on his desk, “You will oversee preparations.” She threw a final parting command over her shoulder as she left. “The killing stroke will be yours, should it be necessary.”

The killing stroke was usually assigned by lot, unless a Knight-Commander deemed it necessary to be assigned to a specific templar. Cullen had the sneaking suspicion that Knight-Commander Greagoir had assigned the killing stroke to him for his own last Harrowing at Kinloch Hold. A test, or a lesson to be taught.

“Thank you, Knight-Commander.” He was grateful that his voice held none of his internal apprehension.

He almost lost himself in his duties that day. Almost. There were reports of apostates to be investigate. Requisitions to approve. Complaints to address. A young mage to retrieve from Lowtown. The penniless family were pitifully grateful to see Cullen and his templars at their door. A Circle mage was provided meals, an education, safety and security for the rest of their life. To the poor and desperate, a life confined to that forbidding island in the bay seemed a vast improvement.

But the chill rose to twist again in his veins when he faced his quarters. Little hope of a dreamless sleep tonight. It was a near impossible challenge to resist the temptation to lay his sword by his bedside.

He awoke abruptly from the same dream as the previous night, in all its blood-stained glory. Every single person he had seen butchered by abominations danced grotesquely in his mind.

As horrific as the dream was, he found himself grateful that the purple skinned demon of his darkest nightmares had not commanded his sleep that night. Better the creeping fear of magic and abominations than the nauseating terror of Desire’s torture that sent him retching over his chamber pot.

He pulled robes over his head and paced restlessly to the balcony overlooking Templar’s Halls courtyard. Much as he might be tempted and much as it might occasionally seem necessary, not every night could be spent patrolling the Circle. Not without the implication that he didn’t trust the men under his command. The cool breeze granted by the night time air lightened some of the tension in his shoulders. A quick glance at the sky showed that he had managed barely an hour of rest. He traced the familiar path to Templar Hall’s chantry. The peace of the chantry was the next best thing to his rare nights of unbroken sleep.

The muted tap of armoured boots pulled Cullen’s head up from its bowed position over his clasped hands. He halted halfway through standing to attention as Meredith gestured for him to stay as he was.

“There is much solace to be gained here, I find,” she commented idly to the air as she knelt in a muted clank of armour a few paces away. The hilt of her sword projected over her shoulder as she inclined her head in front of the statue of Andraste.

Cullen dropped uncertainly back into his kneeling position. It seemed unlikely that the Knight-Commander struggled to sleep as he did. He winced at the thought that he might have woken her with his tortured dreams.

“These truths the Maker has revealed to me: As there is but one world…” Meredith intoned into the echoing silence of the chantry. The words slipped from her with the melodic cadence granted by years of repetition.

Cullen joined, quietly at first, but with increasing volume. She finished a final verse and Cullen heard the gentle clank as she rose from her kneeling position.

“We must all face our fears,” she remarked as mildly as her first comment, “Good night, Cullen.”

He spent a while longer in the chantry before daring to return to his quarters again for a further few hours of rest. Remarkably, he slept through until dawn.

~~~~

The sharp rap of a salute drew Cullen out of his reverie in front of the stairway up to the Harrowing floor. With the prospect of the Harrowing, Cullen had elected to take a full dose of lyrium that morning. His ascent through the Circle had been accompanied by a crystalline clarity that highlighted every resentful glare and pulse of lyrium as the magic from studying apprentices filled the air.

“Knight-Captain,” called out Ambris’ familiar voice, “The Knight-Commander tells me you’ll be assisting with the Harrowing this evening.”

“Let’s get this over and done with, shall we?” Orsino eyed Cullen sourly, “Apparently Meredith trusts us so little that she now has her own second-in-command oversee the preparations.”

Orsino swept up the stairs, not bothering to glance at the templars stationed at the entrance. Anural’s diminutive form trailed close behind with considerably less confidence. No doubt her own Harrowing was fresher in her mind.

Cullen held back a minute until the mages were out of earshot, “This is dangerous magic they wield,” he commented darkly to Ambris. Drawing a spirit in preparation for a Harrowing was closer to demonic summoning than even the magic used by spirit healers. He looked back towards the pair of Knights-Templar that had accompanied Ambris. Both were experienced men. Between the four of them and the templars stationed in the vicinity of the Harrowing chamber, it would have to be enough.

He pushed his reluctance viciously to one side and led the way up the stairs to the Harrowing chamber’s floor. The unfamiliar level at the very top of the Gallows bore little resemblance to the floors below. Where the corridors of the lower floors were characterised by regular doorways and archways leading to what had once been cells or public spaces, the top floor’s corridors were unrelieved blank stone. The only exception was the portcullis that could block the stairwell and heavy doors into the central chamber. Their dull blackened iron did little to improve the view. Whatever the floor’s original purpose had been, it was ideal for its current use.

Cullen halted abruptly before the doors that could isolate the Harrowing chamber from the rest of the Circle. The rough sandstone of the Gallows was entirely different to the smooth grey granite of Kinloch Hold, and the walls were spotless, not stained with blood and rot. And yet a memory of agonised screams writhed through his mind. He shook his head.

Ambris and her templars paused behind him, “Knight-Captain?” she asked with confusion.

“Go on ahead, I will join momentarily.” He responded tightly.

Cullen barely managed to wait until they passed out of view before his breath broke into shaky gasps. Sweat broke out on suddenly clammy skin. The rough leather of his gauntlet scraped against his skin as he raised trembling fingers to wipe his forehead. That little touch of reality did little to relieve the memory of screams and torment. He turned sharply away from the sight of the doors that led on into the Harrowing chamber. It was bigger than the magically shielded enclosure that had held him for Maker knew how long. But the heavy doors that sealed it could serve just as well.

He found himself desperate once again for the feel of the breeze on his skin, or the deep blue of a Kirkwall summer sky. He hissed a despairing oath and slammed the heel of his palm into the unyielding stone of the walls. The sharp pain joined the throbbing in his head and was of no help. He fell back instead to familiar verses of the chant. _And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence._

“I survived. There is nothing to fear here,” he whispered heatedly into the empty corridor. Finally, his breathing approached something close to being under control. “‘I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm’.” He took another deep breath, “’I shall endure’.”

 _I_ will not _falter._

With fear sending its icy tendrils into his bones, Cullen forced himself to turn back and march into the Harrowing chamber. It almost felt like breaking a physical barrier as he passed through the doors. Orsino tapped his foot impatiently as Cullen entered. Templars fell into place behind him as soon as he stepped through. Ambris split herself between surreptitious concerned glances for Cullen and exasperated glances towards the impatient First Enchanter.

Cullen paused for a brief moment to truly recognise the distinctions between the Gallows’ and the Circle Tower’s harrowing chambers. Kinloch Hold’s Harrowing chamber had held an elegance that belied its use, with elegant stained-glass windows and ornate stonework. The Gallows’ Harrowing chamber was as pitilessly efficient as the rest of the building. The rough sandstone walls were relieved only by occasional vents to allow the flow of air and a handful of banners for the Circle of Magi and Templar Order. The only indicator of the chamber’s current purpose was the ornate basin decorated with engravings of Andraste. The basin would remain empty until immediately before the Harrowing. With smuggling still rife in the Gallows, even the dilute lyrium used by the mages was too valuable to leave unattended.

He glanced over to Anural, “You may begin.” _Maker, I hope they don’t hear my fear_ , he prayed.

The lyrium in his blood responded to the sudden flow of magic in the room. He clasped his hands behind his back tightly enough to hear his gauntlets creak as Anural worked. Ambris seemed outwardly calm. Cullen couldn’t help but feel that she was naïve to be so trusting.

The process of preparation was an exercise in control. Cullen counted his racing heartbeats as he waited, holding back the instinct that begged to react to the use of magic. Holding back the need to react in any way at all to his mere presence in a Harrowing chamber.

Cullen was glad at least that Enchanter Anural had been selected for the process rather than Senior Enchanter Pelavin. It would have been near impossible to maintain the proper neutrality around him. Who was to say the mage would not have drawn a demon right though the veil? Pride like Pelavin’s was exactly what had led to the fall of Kinloch Hold.

To the templars, there was little evidence of magic apart from a familiar feel to the air and response from the lyrium in their blood. Anural stood motionless near the centre of the room, mouthing the occasional word. Perhaps it was merely a trick of the mind, but the air seemed to slowly drop in temperature. After a surprisingly short wait, the flow of magic stopped and Anural opened her eyes. She nodded in satisfaction, “The spirit is ready now.”

Cullen breathed an internal sigh of relief and unclasped his hands from behind his back. His fingers ached where the metal of his gauntlets had pressed into the skin.

“Ser Ambris, escort them back to the mages’ floors, if you will,” he nodded curtly, “Good day, First Enchanter, Enchanter.”

He marched from the room as quickly as he would allow himself to the sound of salutes from Ambris and her men. To Cullen’s surprise, the light taps of a mage’s footsteps followed him out. Even so, he didn’t turn until he had entered the corridor outside the Harrowing chamber. Anural halted a cautious distance from him and self-consciously smoothed her blue Enchanter’s robes before looking up at him, “Knight-Captain, I have a request, if I may?”

“What, Enchanter?” he succeeded in keeping the lingering anxiety from his voice, but he couldn’t prevent the frown that creased his brow. The result was an irritable snap that amplified the Enchanter’s uneasiness. It was a sure sign that she was new to her position, obvious even had he not signed the approval himself. The average Circle mage prayed never to have cause to interact with templar commanding officers once they completed their Harrowing.

She seemed reluctant to continue, “I knew Samson before he left. I know you enforce Meredith’s commands, but Samson said you could be trusted,” She looked intensely doubtful and paused briefly. She seemed to come to a decision and continued, “Some of my friends have gone missing in recent months. I would have thought the templars of all people would have noticed, but no one has said anything. Now that you’ve found your own missing people, perhaps you might help me.”

 _Maker’s breath, more missing from the Gallows?_ “You didn’t report this before now?”

“I did, to one of the Enchanters,” she sighed, “But not many amongst the mages are willing to pay attention to someone from a minority fraternity. I don’t know if he ever bothered to do anything about it,” a hint of fire filled her words at that, “Only now that I have the title of Enchanter do I have the authority to speak to someone like you.”

“Mage politics should not be allowed to get in the way of the Circle’s safety,” Cullen scowled, anxiety almost forgotten, “I will have a word with the First Enchanter. Who has gone missing?”

“Three mages that I know of: Theanne, Jensen, and Karl.”

“Karl Thekla?”

She looked surprised, “Yes.”

“Karl Thekla underwent the Rite of Tranquility. He was murdered in the Chantry some months ago.”

The look of surprise morphed into shock, “I can’t believe that. Tranquility? Murder? How-” she stopped, at a loss for words. After a few breaths she straightened, “Karl was a good mage. I don’t understand why he would have been made tranquil. And murder…?” she trailed off again

“It’s not my place to tell you if you weren’t informed at the time, Enchanter.” He looked back to where Ambris and her men waited, “Allow Knight-Lieutenant Ambris to escort you back. I will investigate these other missing mages. Thank you for informing me.”

She turned away with a reluctant nod, “Thank you, Knight-Captain.”

The final fragments of unease disappeared behind a new mystery to address. The news might not be any cause for concern. If no templar had reported any missing mages, it was most likely that they had been transferred elsewhere. It was rare for anyone other than the First Enchanter to be informed. The less people knew of a transfer, the less complaints there were likely to be. Thankfully, Templar Hall kept detailed records of its mage inhabitants, a policy introduced long ago by Meredith. Maker willing, this would be one mystery that was easy to solve.

Templar Hall’s archive was a rarely-visited corner of the Gallows. The danger of fire in a room full of documents meant the room was even gloomier than the rest of the building. A single tranquil manned the desk with eerie calm. The only light in the room emanated from a pair of glowstones that cast a cold blue light on the desk. No doubt the tranquil would have sat that way, hands clasped in front of him, from when he first arrived in the morning to when he left again in the evening.

The tranquil looked up and adopted a cool smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “How may I be of service, Knight-Captain?”

“I require the records for two mages housed in the Gallows: Theanne and Jensen.”

The tranquil didn’t respond. They saw little need for platitudes. His robed form disappeared into the aisles, the glowstone in his hand casting sharp-edged shadows on the tightly packed shelves.

Cullen tapped his foot impatiently. There were a thousand other matters to which he should attend. But hopefully this mystery of missing mages could be put to rest quickly.

The bobbing light of the glowstone re-emerged from the shadowed lanes and the tranquil returned to the desk with a sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Records for Jensen of Kirkwall and Theanne of Kirkwall, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen collected the papers and leafed through them quickly. Jensen of Kirkwall, speciality: Primal magic; ice. Arrived in the circle aged ten in 9:05 Dragon, harrowed at age twenty-two. Late, but not remarkably so. Member of the Isolationist fraternity. Not remarkable characterised most of his record. The man had been a perfect resident of the Circle. He seemed to have been reasonably well liked by the templars, although he had few friends amongst the mages as a member of an unpopular fraternity. He flipped to the final page and his eyebrows raised in surprise. The man was dead. Somehow, he had slit his own throat. That was a surprise for someone who had never showed any dislike for life in the circle, even more so for an Isolationist.

He flipped to Theanne’s records. Theanne of Kirkwall, speciality: Force magic. Arrived in the circle aged seven in 9:12 Dragon, harrowed at age eighteen. Theanne had no known fraternity, but, much like Jensen, she had drawn little attention to herself apart from regular letters sent to family in Hightown that had never received a response. Not uncommon. Many families disowned children who developed magical abilities. He flipped again to the last page and his eyes narrowed in confusion.

He looked across to the patiently waiting tranquil, “Is this all that there is of Theanne’s records?”

“Yes, Knight-Captain.”

“One-years’ worth of updates is missing. These records should be updated at least every three months.”

The tranquil blinked once, the closest they could ever come to showing confusion, “I cannot provide an answer for you, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen glanced at the last entry. The records noted she had made a complaint against a templar Knight-Lieutenant. Then, nothing. The record failed to note details or the identity of the templar against whom the complaint had been made, or if the matter had been resolved. It was unsurprising, if disappointing, that the templars in the Gallows were reluctant to report on their own failings. A matter that should be addressed.

Cullen handed the pages back to the tranquil with a polite nod of thanks and a concerned frown. It seemed unlikely that this Theanne would have fled the circle. The archive records had little value to anyone, even the templars. If a mage were planning on destroying their records, there seemed little reason to remove only the most recent pages. He cursed internally. There were beginning to be too many mysteries in Kirkwall for comfort.

~~~~

The corridors of the Circle had adopted their usual post-curfew silence by the time Cullen and Ambris returned to the Harrowing chamber. He and Ambris had led a brief chantry service for the templars assigned to the ritual. Now they were faced with the Harrowing itself. Somehow, Cullen managed to brute force through the creeping dread he felt as they walked between the chamber’s heavy doors. Ambris leaned comfortably against a wall with her helm at her feet.

“If I may ask, Ser. I know you didn’t attend any Harrowings here in the Gallows. Is this your first?”

Ambris’ need to warn a young templar of the Harrowing ritual warred against deference to a superior. She clearly hadn’t missed his reaction.

Cullen avoided her gaze and instead walked over to the filled basin. It was easier to maintain the façade that way. “I attended four in Kinloch Hold. All went smoothly, thank the Maker.” _I will spare you the tale of my true reason to dread the Harrowing chamber,_ he finished silently. Thankfully, the report of his experience during the fall of the Circle Tower had never become common knowledge. Rumours were prevalent and often absurd, but it was better they believed anything other than the truth.

She looked relieved, “I’ve attended and overseen more than l can count by now. It’s never something that one truly gets used to.”

“You hardly need remind me,” Cullen murmured quietly, then more loudly, “The mage seemed to draw the spirit more quickly than I might have expected.”

She chuckled, “Kirkwall is a little special that way.” A look of disquiet crossed her face, “Not sure I want to know why.”

The march of booted feet heralded the arrival of Ambris’ men. She leaned down to don her helmet as they arrayed themselves in positions around the room with the smooth confidence of experience. Cullen followed suit and placed his winged helm on his head. Faintly, he heard Ambris utter a brief prayer before it was muffled behind her helm. None of the templars’ faces were visible, but Cullen had no doubt that they were thankful that the killing stroke hadn’t fallen to one of them.

With helms on, they could have been perfectly matched statues of unyielding steel and bright cloth. Faceless, emotionless figures set to survey the room for eternity. The subdued conversation a templar might share with his fellows when on duty had no place in the gravity of a Harrowing. It was easy at that moment to see what a mage feared under the templars’ cold regard.

They waited in disciplined silence until, finally, the sound of footsteps marked the arrival of Meredith, Orsino, and the apprentice, still dazed from the abrupt awakening late at night. The apprentice was dwarfed by the fully armoured escort that trailed him. Despite it all, he seemed to be more excited than apprehensive.

Orsino laid a hand on the apprentice’s shoulder and led him to the glowing basin of lyrium. The cool light glinted off Meredith’s armour as she faced the apprentice over the pool of liquid, Cullen a pace behind her.

“’Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him’,” she intoned. In that light, her eyes seemed the same crystalline shade as the pool of lyrium before her. “So Andraste herself spoke when she cast down the Magisters that sought to crush Thedas beneath them. The magic you hold is a heavy burden. One that you must carry with vigilance until the day you die. The demons that lurk in the fade will seek to use you as a gateway into this world. It is your duty to deny them and their offers.” She gestured to the basin before her, “This is your Harrowing. Through lyrium, you will be sent into the fade. There you will face a demon. Prove that you have the strength to resist temptation.”

The excitement drained from the apprentice as he listened. He glanced over to Orsino and asked shakily, “And if I fail?”

“You will not, Garrod. You have trained for years. You are more than ready to face this.” Orsino wisely chose not to frighten the apprentice with the threat of possession and death beneath the blade of a templar.

“The Rite of Tranquility is your only alternative, should you refuse to face the Harrowing.”

Unsurprisingly, the apprentice didn’t seem comforted by Meredith's response. Orsino squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, “You _can_ succeed. Your magic is a gift. This final test will prove to yourself as much as them that you deserve to hold it.”

Cullen exhaled within the confines of his helm. Knight-Commander Greagoir had called it a gift too. A gift and a curse. _I see little to be thankful for in being cursed with magic._ Meredith seemed to agree with the sentiment if her narrowed her eyes were to be believed.

The apprentice nodded with determination. He reached towards the bowl of lyrium with a trembling hand. Lyrium held a strange relationship with mages and magic. The raw substance would kill them. A templar’s dose would leave them incapacitated for hours. Yet, in the processed form that the apprentice now reached for, it allowed them to tap into vastly greater power. Power to send their waking mind into the fade. Or the power to tear the room down around their ears.

The apprentice’s fingertips brushed the surface of the lyrium. He gasped, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Orsino caught him as his knees buckled, lowering the unconscious apprentice gently to the floor.

Cullen took a steadying breath and drew his sword. Any uncertainty fled in the face of this crucial responsibility. He paced around the basin and raised the sword in a two-handed grip until the blade hovered point first above the apprentice’s prone form. Orsino took a few sensible steps back to give Cullen room. Whatever the First Enchanter’s opinion on the need for the Harrowing, a templar was always the first line of defence against the dangers of an abomination.

He held the blade steadily and counted his measured heartbeats. This close to the basin, he could almost hear the dilute lyrium as it sang in harmony with the concentrated substance that flowed through his own veins with every beat of his heart.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. The fastest Harrowing Cullen had attended had been over in twenty. No one in the chamber had cause for concern yet.

The distant sound of a bell marked the time as an hour past midnight. Thirty minutes.

Cullen’s heart rate ratcheted up almost imperceptibly. Forty-five minutes. No mage on record had returned unpossessed after facing their demon for more than an hour. But there was still time.

Fifty minutes. Cullen resettled his hands about the grip of his sword. Behind him, he heard Orsino let out an anxious breath. Meredith looked across to Cullen. She maintained the silence expected during the ritual, but the cold look in her eyes said all that was necessary.

The occupants of the room collectively held their breath as the apprentice drew in a sharp gasp. He sighed once and then slid from the unnatural stillness of unconsciousness to the natural stillness of sleep. The tension slipped from the room and the templars lost their stiff attention.

Yet Cullen found he couldn’t loosen his grip on his sword even as he stepped backwards. Almost fifty-five minutes in the fade.

Orsino marched up to check on the sleeping form, “Call off your templars, Knight-Commander. Garrod passed your test.”

“My men know their duty, Orsino,” snapped Meredith. She gestured for a templar to collect the prone form.

Cullen watched as the apprentice was carried from the chamber to be returned, for the final time, to the dormitories. His hand remained clenched about his sword’s grip as he strode over to stand beside Meredith.

“Close to an hour in the fade, Knight-Commander,” he murmured, “Surely he must be watched.”

“The Harrowing ritual proves that a mage can resist temptation, Cullen,” she admonished him mildly. Her gaze remained fixed on where Orsino stood. She paused for a moment, “Yet I find myself becoming more doubtful of that with each report of blood magic I read. Perhaps they force us to become more cautious.” She looked down at the naked steel in Cullen’s hand, “I need more templars with your level of vigilance, Knight-Captain. I will consider any recommendations you might have regarding the monitoring of mages following their Harrowing.”

Orsino finally noticed Meredith’s scrutiny and scowled in response. He gave an ironic bow, “If l have your permission to leave?” He swept from the room in pursuit of the sleeping form of the apprentice. His escort made no attempt at subtlety as they shadowed him. Even the First Enchanter was not exempt from Meredith’s curfew.

Finally, only Meredith and Cullen remained in the Harrowing chamber.  She rested her palms on either side of the lyrium basin and stared into the swirling liquid. Its glow had faded to a barely visible gleam that cast sharp-edged shadows on the walls.

“I hope, in your time here, you have come to see why l ask much of you and every other templar in the Gallows.”

Cullen absently sheathed his sword as he considered her words. “We face a losing battle. Every day new mages are born in Thedas. Every day, those born a dozen years ago come into their power. If we are pushed hard, it is because it is necessary. Without the Order, there would be no shield against magic. We cannot allow a soft touch to endanger our or anyone else’s safety.”

“Unfortunately, there are few who agree, even here in the Gallows.” She looked up from the basin and pinned him with her glare, “I sacrifice what I must for the good of the Order.” She lifted a hand to indicate the Harrowing chamber, “I forced you to face this even knowing what it represents for you because I need a resolute ally who understands that. You have not disappointed me, Knight-Captain. I pray it remains so.”

With a final nod of farewell, she strode from the room. Despite her faith in him, Cullen couldn’t face remaining alone in the Harrowing chamber. Not yet. He left the chamber behind her, not daring to cast a backwards glance. His hands might still be trembling, but to be in control of what happened in that chamber in such a crucial part of a templar’s duty, the ability to _leave_ when that duty was fulfilled, was a freedom that lightened the weight on his heart, if just fraction. _I will not falter_ , he thought with a powerful combination of relief and satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start dropping some random notes here. Skip if you're just here for story.
> 
> ~~~~
> 
> It feels a little cruel to keep presenting Cullen with these flashbacks of Kinloch Hold. But it’s unavoidable when he’s stuck somewhere where he’ll find almost constant reminders. Abominations, arrogant mages, blood magic, lyrium withdrawal etc. are more general, but the Harrowing chamber would almost be the strongest reminder (apart from facing a Desire demon, which I’m pretty sure would crack him completely at this early stage of the story). Even if its not Kinloch Hold, I can’t believe that Cullen could willingly volunteer to go anywhere near one. 
> 
> Lyrium stops templars from going completely mad from such memories, so I take that as the reason why he doesn’t ever have a violent and total breakdown. Extreme emotion can still get through, but he’s perfectly functional. Fine in the short term, although that emotional suppression is probably part of why he’s still suffering ten years later during Inquisition.
> 
> Obviously, there’s no mental healthcare in Thedas, but so far in this fiction, he’s had three versions of ‘help’. Greagoir sends him to Greenfell, but all that peace and quiet would give him nothing to do but think. The Greenfell Chantry Mother subtly enables him to overuse lyrium and further stifle any emotional response. Cullen assumes she’s trying to help, but the chantry’s not too bothered if templars lose their minds to lyrium, as long as they serve until that point. Harmoran lets Cullen overwork himself, but, behind the scenes, makes sure he never has to deal with a Harrowing.
> 
> Meredith reacts differently. She waits long enough to see he’s sane before promoting him to a position where she can start moulding her ideal templar (although she knows better than to push too far). Then she gets rid of Harmoran. That lets her promote someone she thinks is the perfect fit for the position, with all the right attitude. It takes him a long while to shake himself out of trying to follow Meredith’s vision. Partly because of ingrained respect for the chain of command, but partly because he feels he owes her for giving him a chance when Greagoir or the chantry would have side-lined him to an early retirement (I actually thought Greagoir was alright when I played Origins, but I’ve ended up liking him less as I write this fiction. Sealing both templars and mages in the tower with abominations when the Templar Order is specifically for dealing with blood magic etc. is just cruel. Four people cleared most of the tower, a few squads of templars should have been fine.)
> 
> (Obviously I've thought about it all a bit too much in order to write the story)


	13. Act of Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a slow-down in writing speed here. This chapter went through a **lot** of iterations and reshuffles before I was satisfied. I’m still not entirely happy with it, but it's passable now.

**Kingsway 9:31 Dragon**

Over the months since Cullen’s promotion to Knight-Captain, he and Orsino had reached an equilibrium. Cullen had made his distrust of mages and magic both explicitly and implicitly clear, which Orsino matched with a caution of his own. It was nothing like the friendly rivalry that First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir had shared. That was a dangerous path to tread. But with that equilibrium came mutual understanding that only rarely led to conflict.

It was an equilibrium that Orsino and Meredith did not share. More often than not, Orsino’s voice would be heard in the commanding officers’ corridor only when he and Meredith had broken into another argument. It was therefore always a surprise when the voice filtering out of the First Enchanter’s office held none of the anger that filled even his most casual conversations with Meredith.

Thrask saluted as Cullen passed by where he waited outside the First Enchanter’s office. He indicated the closed door beside him, “The apostate reported from the Alienage, Ser. The First Enchanter is welcoming him to the Circle.”

That certainly explained the mild tone of the conversation. It was always blatantly obvious when Orsino spoke to his fellow mages without a templar audience. All the antagonism that usually filled his voice when he spoke to templars disappeared to leave a kindly politeness and eagerness to help. An apostate’s welcome to the Circle would have been decidedly less friendly had he chosen to run.

“He gave himself up willingly then.”

Thrask paused as though wondering how much he should say, “As a matter of fact, Ser, a mercenary convinced him to surrender himself on behalf of the boy’s mother. He came to me willingly.”

“A mercenary convinced an apostate to surrender himself to the Circle?” Cullen responded with surprise, “I’d as soon believe that Andraste herself was wandering the streets of Kirkwall.”

“I thought as much myself, Ser, but she seemed eager to help.” He paused and offered a further comment at the sight of Cullen’s doubtful expression, “It is good to have allies amongst the general populace.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he sighed. Trust was a commodity he had in short supply these days, “Thank you, Ser Thrask. I expect a complete report by the end of the day.”

“Knight-Captain,” he acknowledged.

A pile of reports greeted Cullen as he entered his office. Cullen’s heart leapt in anticipation as he picked up a raven’s missive on the top of the pile. The compact message made its origins obvious. An update from the scouts tracking the Starkhaven apostates.

They had been scouring the region around Kirkwall for almost two months, long past when any obvious signs of the apostates would have faded. Even Cullen was beginning to admit that they might have fled the Free Marches entirely. If this latest report held no good news, perhaps it was finally time to recall the scouts.

He unrolled the tightly furled scroll of paper and skimmed the dense handwriting.

> _Knight-Captain Cullen._
> 
> _S. apostates spotted on Wounded Coast three days from K. Unknown if maleficarum. Expect return 19 th Kingsway for orders._
> 
> _Knight-Lieutenant Forthrin_

Cullen felt like a weight had lifted from his chest. The scouts’ dedication had paid off. But if the apostates were on the Wounded Coast, perhaps they meant to flee across the Waking Sea.

He pushed himself up from his desk. The Knight-Commander would want to hear the news. Any time they wasted now was time in which the apostates could escape.

Meredith looked up from her own stack of reports as Cullen entered. He handed over the scroll of paper, “The scouts have found the Starkhaven apostates, Knight-Commander.”

She smiled grimly as she read the message, “This is excellent news. I trust you have a suggested course of action?”

“Knight-Commander Carsten warned that the fugitives may have resorted to blood magic. We must assume the worst.” He paused for a moment and considered the available officers. Neither he nor Meredith could be spared for so long away from the Gallows unless absolutely necessary. But those templars with the authority and proven skill to track and capture renegades on an extended assignment were a limited selection. “I would suggest we send Knight-Lieutenant Karras and Knight-Corporal Thrask. Ser Thrask has shown himself to be adept at retrieving apostates alive, whilst Ser Karras will readily deal with any maleficarum should it prove necessary.”

Meredith nodded her approval. “Maker willing, I will be able to send Knight-Commander Carsten good news soon, whether the apostates are taken alive or dead.”

Eighty Starkhaven mages now lived in the Gallows. The results would be catastrophic if they followed the example of their fellows. _Dead would be safer_ , Cullen couldn’t help but think as he swept out of her office.

Three days of intense preparation later, and the small force of templars stood to attention in Templar Hall’s courtyard under Cullen and Meredith’s watchful eyes. The scouts, despite fresh attire and a full dose of lyrium, still looked as exhausted as when they had arrived at the Gallows’ docks the previous day. But time was of the essence now that the apostates had been found, and so the scouts faced another gruelling journey after only a night’s rest.

Thrask’s expression was stoic as he stood with folded arms a pace away from Karras’ squad of templars. He may have emphasised his enthusiasm for a peaceful resolution, but the sword and shield rested comfortably on his back. Even the most easy-going templar was drilled to be cautious around dangerous apostates. But Cullen still couldn’t judge whether his choice to travel without the reinforcement from the Knights-Templar under his own command was brave or mad. Apostates outside the Circle’s influence would not hesitate to kill a lone templar. Thrask freely admitted that his skills did not lie in combat. He would never be able to hold his own if they turned against him. Had it not been for Karras’ men, Cullen would have insisted that Thrask bring his own support.

Meredith had been of a similar mind on reviewing their planned approach, and she repeated her caution to him now, “Ser Thrask. You will defer to Ser Karras if he believes that the apostates are beyond redemption.” Thrask nodded a touch reluctantly. “And Ser Karras. You know your orders.” A look passed between Meredith and Karras that suggested orders to which Cullen had not been privy.

Karras smirked as he looked over to Thrask, “My men and I will wait half a day behind you and sweep the area around the caverns. If you can’t get the robes to surrender, we’ll advance.” There was an unspoken ‘when’ in the man’s tone that replaced the spoken ‘if’.

There was clearly no love lost between the two. Thrask met the other templar’s gaze solidly. “Give me that half a day and l will ensure they are recovered safely by whatever means necessary, Knight-Lieutenant.”

Karras snorted in disbelief, “As you say, Thrask,” he signalled to the templars behind him, “Let’s get moving. The longer we wait, the more likely they are to disappear again.”

With a collective sigh from the weary scouts, they boarded a waiting ship. All being well, they would return within a week escorting the renegades. Then perhaps Cullen would finally rest easy. It was certainly nice to hope that would be true.

~~~~

The week passed with agonising slowness. Busy as the Gallows kept him, news of the Starkhaven apostates was all he really wanted to hear. As he read a particularly dull update on the next shipment of lyrium, the box that had sat at the corner of his desk for the past week caught his attention for what seemed to be the fifth time in as many minutes. He set the papers to one side and lifted the phylactery from the padded interior of the box. The contents should have bathed the leather of his gauntlets with an intense red glow, but the viscous liquid was completely dull. The mage was either dead, tranquil, or far enough away that it made little difference. Given that he had already checked the records regarding deaths and the use of the rite in the Gallows, neither of those options seemed likely.

Orsino had been understandably curious at Cullen’s request for assistance with access to the phylactery chamber. He had been fully prepared with a mocking lecture on the incompetence of templars that could allow another mage to escape before Cullen explained the situation. There were over two hundred mages in the Gallows, and Orsino seemed to know every one of them personally. But all he had been able to do was admit that he hadn’t spoken with Theanne in several months. Given the First Enchanter’s distaste for what he saw as betraying the confidence of the mages in the Gallows, Cullen had been surprised that Orsino had been willing to say even that much.

He replaced the phylactery in its box and closed the lid with an irritated snap. Phylacteries were indispensable when tracking escapees, but they hardly did much good if no one bothered to report a missing mage. A year would give even the most incompetent apostate time to run far enough to make their phylactery all but useless. It was an embarrassment to the Order that a missing mage could go unreported for so long.

If Orsino was a dead end, it was possible that the templar Knight-Lieutenant against whom she had made a complaint a year ago would know more. There were six Knights-Lieutenant who focused exclusively on duties within the Circle itself. Two were recent promotions by Meredith. That left only four who might be able to provide information.

He pushed himself up sharply from his desk. Anything would be better than reading yet another borderline rude communication from Orzammar.

He paced out of his office to the templar stationed outside his door, “Ser Corin. Please inform Knights-Lieutenant Ambris, Rost, Alrik and Karellian to come by my office at their earliest convenience.”

The templar hurried off with a sharp salute. “Right away, Ser.”

At least now it felt like there was some purpose to be had while he waited for news. Cullen picked up the update again and scanned its contents. It was amazing how much sarcasm could fill a simple shipping update. He would have been fascinated if the message hadn’t been intended for him. The Gallows alone used a king’s ransom worth of lyrium each year. The dwarves had all the power when it came to lyrium, and they were happy to hold that control over the Order’s head. But provided the monthly deliveries arrived on time, he could happily ignore the bluster.

He didn’t need to wait long. At this time of day, many would be in the mess hall. His own meal still lay forgotten on his desk. That was one luxury of a command position that the castellan had no choice but to provide, even if the food always did arrive cold.

Ambris saluted sharply as she entered close behind Ser Corin, “You called for me, Knight-Captain?”

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Ser Ambris,” he sat himself back down behind his desk and spun the phylactery box around to face where Ambris stood to attention, “A mage named Theanne has been reported missing from the Gallows. A years’ worth of reports on her are gone from the archives. Did you come across this mage at all?”

Ambris looked thoughtful for a moment, “Can’t say that I have, Ser. I can ask around my Knights-Corporal, but you know as well as I that we’re discouraged from socialising with the mages.”

“This one might have stood out more than usual. She made an unspecified complaint against a Knight-Lieutenant a year ago.”

Ambris’ eyes darkened, “I’ve never done anything to warrant a complaint, Knight-Captain. You know me well enough to know that any complaint would have been entirely undeserved.”

“I apologise for any suggestion of wrongdoing,” Cullen replied hurriedly, “I’m sure you would have reported any issue. But would you have any idea who the complaint might have been made against?

“I really couldn’t say, Ser,” she said guardedly.

“Thank you, Ser Ambris,” he sighed, “Please let me know if you hear anything.”

Rost and Karellian had much the same response. Confusion and indignation in equal measure. Neither was willing to admit to knowing more. At times like this, loyalty to one’s fellow templars began to feel rather grating.

It wasn’t until much later that the final Knight-Lieutenant arrived. Cullen frowned as Corin knocked on the doorframe to announce the man’s arrival.

“Ser Alrik. You took your time.”

“I had duties in the Circle. Knight-Captain.” The pause was just short enough to stay on the right side of insubordination. Alrik was old for a templar, and he hadn’t lost the precise tones of Kirkwall nobility. Perhaps he believed that experience and pedigree had earned him some deference from a man more than half his age, commanding officer or not.

Corin shrugged a confirmation as he stepped back out of the office to allow Alrik past. Alrik made to sit as he entered. Cullen sent him a sharp look, “Remain standing, Ser Alrik, this won’t take long.”

Cullen could have sworn he saw a touch of disgust twist the older templar’s mouth, but the man stayed where he was and saluted, “How can I be of service?”

“I am investigating the report of a missing mage named Theanne. She made a complaint against a templar Knight-Lieutenant a year ago. Perhaps you know of it?”

Alrik laughed outright, “Theanne? She was unstable. I called her out on it, and she complained.”

Cullen’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. After hitting multiple dead ends, he hadn’t expected anyone to know anything. “That seems a rather minor incident for a formal complaint, and your official report was rather… lacking in detail. Was that all?”

“That was all. Ser,” he drawled.

“Forgive me if I would prefer a more detailed account, Ser Alrik.” A touch of sarcasm that Cullen couldn’t quite restrain edged the words.

Alrik’s eyes narrowed, “You know how mages like to complain. It was really that trivial. I never crossed paths with her again.”

“A year’s worth of records are missing, and so is the mage, Ser Alrik,” Cullen replied with growing irritation. Surely there was no reason for this reticence. “There must have been more to the incident than was reported.”

“I will not accept you questioning my ability, _Knight-Captain,”_ The disgust re-emerged to paint itself across his features, “A mage-lover like you should never have gained a position as second-in-command of the Gallows.”

Cullen blinked in shock at the sudden outburst, “Explain yourself, Knight-Lieutenant Alrik,” he commanded.

“We’ve all heard the rumours of you before the fall of the Fereldan Circle, boy. You and that knife-ear mage. Her being the so-called ‘Hero of Ferelden’ now doesn’t remedy that fault.”

Cullen’s heart lurched sickeningly. _Have I not yet paid enough of a price for my failings?_ Surely he had eliminated any misguided feelings he had once held. He clamped down on the sudden turmoil in his mind and pushed it behind a barrier of cold control.

“Baseless accusations against your commanding officers are unacceptable,” he responded dangerously. He stood from his desk and indicated the open door with a casual wave of his hand. “But if you have a complaint, I suggest you register it with my superior. It seems that the chain of command has slipped your mind, so allow me to remind you, _Knight-Lieutenant_ Alrik. That would be the Knight-Commander. The only templar in Kirkwall with authority greater than mine.” The charge of insubordination might not have been voiced, but it was easily recognisable nonetheless. They locked eyes across the desk, “Come now,” Cullen continued acidly, “I could hardly reprimand you for failing to appropriately record a complaint and then encourage you to do the same again.”

Alrik sneered as he tried to work out if Cullen was bluffing. He turned on a heel without a salute and marched out of the office. Cullen followed more slowly to watch him rap sharply on the Knight-Commander’s door a short distance down the corridor. “She will be as disgusted by this revelation as I am,” Alrik snapped across the intervening space.

Corin tried to shift unobtrusively away from what he undoubtedly thought was going to be an imminent conflict. Little hope that the man hadn’t heard the accusation. He was stationed right outside Cullen’s door in case any assistance was required.

Alrik entered the Knight-Commander’s office with a final hostile glare. Cullen turned his own sharp look to the subtly retreating templar. He froze.

“I trust you don’t also spread baseless rumours about your commanding officers, Knight-Templar Corin.”

“Absolutely not, Knight-Captain,” he responded with a vehement shake of his head. He fell into a rigid pose of attention and muttered what sounded like a brief prayer. Cullen would have empathised if it hadn’t been for the mix of displeasure and despair that the accusation and prompted. No Knight-Templar would want to be caught within a mile of a charge of insubordination between two of the most senior officers in a Circle, let alone an accusation of misconduct.

The templar stationed at the other end of the corridor might not have heard the conversation, but he would certainly have heard its tone and Alrik’s parting comment. He flicked his curious gaze away abruptly and stiffened his posture.

Alrik emerged from Merdith’s office five minutes later with a livid scowl. The look he cast over to Cullen as he glanced down the corridor held more resentment than a room full of mages. If Meredith hadn’t been close behind him, Cullen had no doubt that the older templar would have had a much stronger response than a simple glare.

Corin winced as Meredith spotted him. “Knight-Templar. If I discover that anyone in the Gallows has been repeating unsubstantiated rumours about Knight-Captain Cullen, they will find themselves joining Ser Alrik in serving for a week without lyrium.” The man’s nod and salute were even more fervent than the previous one. Meredith’s gaze slid to Cullen, “Cullen, a word.”

Alrik’s scowl morphed into a sly smirk before he saluted Meredith and turned sharply to leave the corridor.

She closed the door behind her and turned to face him. “Unfortunately, it would be impossible to root out the source of this rumour. The barracks are hives of gossip. Nonetheless, anyone caught repeating it will be punished. I cannot have insubordination against my second-in-command. I have severely reprimanded Ser Alrik for the accusation. He has been warned that you have my authority to meet further infractions on his part with a demotion to Knight-Corporal.” She held up a finger to prevent any response, “But. Surely you of all people, Cullen, know that our attentions must _always_ be on the mages. I value the focus you have brought to this position. The mages are treacherous, and all of Kirkwall could suffer if that attention flags.”

“Of course, Knight-Commander. I was simply concerned that a mage might have escaped the Gallows unnoticed.” _Surely investigating the prospect of an escaped mage was not a distraction?_ He thought in confusion.

“Ser Alrik explained the situation to me. The mage is not missing. There was simply an error in the records, for which he has been reprimanded. This Theanne is dead.”

All three of the missing mages were apparently dead. That was concerning. Deaths in Kinloch Hold had been vanishingly rare. But now that the Knight-Commander was aware of the situation, he had to assume she would address any issues.

“I’ll consider the matter resolved then, Knight-Commander.”

“Please do come to me if you have any further concerns regarding missing mages.” She saluted lightly, “Good day, Cullen.”

Orsino was idling outside his own door as Cullen left Meredith’s office. He feigned looking at the book in his hands before glancing up with a wry smile, “A harsh allegation indeed.”

“Even the idea is completely inappropriate,” Cullen protested.

“Oh, I have no doubt a dutiful templar like you would never find a mage attractive,” Orsino chuckled, “Maker forbid a relationship could ever happen between a templar and a mage. You might actually start to see us as people instead of deadly weapons.”

Cullen couldn’t tell if the mage was mocking him by repeating words he had used himself. Orsino knew as well as he did that fraternisation in the Circle was forbidden. Even relationships in general were frowned upon just as much for templars as they were for mages.

Cullen grimaced in response and quickly redirected the conversation, “I will require your assistance to enter the phylactery chamber, First Enchanter.”

Orsino sighed resignedly, “Surely you haven’t lost another mage?”

“Maker. I certainly hope not.” Cullen shook his head, “The issue with Theanne has been resolved. I’ll need to put her phylactery into storage for disposal.”

“Disposal? No. Surely not...”

“Ser Alrik reports that she is dead.”

“Alrik said that did he? I-” Orsino closed his mouth and waved a dismissive hand, “Never mind. That is not a battle I can win.”

“What do you mean?”

Orsino frowned, “Suffice to say that Alrik has made his opinion on mages quite clear on numerous occasions.” He gave Cullen a sidelong disapproving glance, “I’m well aware of your own feelings regarding us, but at least you’re civil about it.”

“My ‘feelings’ are only what is required from me in my duty as a templar,” Cullen replied stiffly. But he couldn’t bring himself to defend Alrik, and so he nodded a neutral farewell instead, “I’ll pass by your office this evening to visit the Phylactery chamber. Good day, First Enchanter.”

Orsino waved idly with the book and returned to his office. “Not all of us work through our evenings,” he muttered as he closed the door behind him.

Corin drew himself back to attention and cleared his throat uncomfortably as Cullen strode back down the corridor. Cullen paused in front of the doorway, “Yes, Ser Corin?”

Corin shifted before settling back into his stiff pose of attention, “Knight-Captain. Look. Knight-Lieutenant Alrik has his admirers. But most of us just want to get on with our duties. I don’t care what any of the rumours out of Kinloch Hold say. You’re the Knight-Captain.” He saluted and turned back to face out into the corridor.

Judging by what he heard in passing, the rumours about him in Kinloch Hold were blossoming with every telling. Anything from him having murdered three mages before his transfer to him being intended to replace Knight-Commander Greagoir. Never mind that he had only held the rank of Knight-Templar in Kinloch Hold. Unfortunately, the rumour of him murdering three mages held a grain of truth. He hadn’t killed any mages, but the first few weeks after the Circle was freed had … not been a good time. It was something he would much rather forget, if the Maker would allow it.

Still, those rumours could be endured. The rumour of a relationship with a mage of all things was painful to hear. He added another layer to the wall against desire he had built around his mind. _Andraste give me strength. May I never again be so foolish as to want such a thing._

~~~~

The mages’ refectory bustled for the evening meal. Near every mage in the Gallows gathered for each mealtime, from the crowds of chattering apprentices at one end of the spacious room to the sedate tables of the Senior Enchanters at the other. It was as spartan as the rest of the Gallows, with only a handful of banners to relieve the rough stone walls or conceal the Tevinter statues that held up the ceiling. But any mage who thought the templars were better served would have been surprised. The Order vowed not to seek wealth. Their miniscule stipends and simple fare reflected that. Donations from rich relatives and the proceeds from the Formari meant that Circles of Magi were rarely pressed for money. It might not be a life of luxury or the freedom they demanded, but it was more comfortable than shared barracks. Despite Orsino’s protests before the arrival of the Starkhaveners, they could easily absorb more mages after the increase in chantry funding.

Cullen hesitated in the entrance to the room. Even knowing exactly how many templars were assigned to guard duty during meals in the Circle, there didn’t seem to be quite enough. Two squads of templars could hardly be expected to contain a room full of mages.

Cullen’s instincts screamed that it was too dangerous to enter, and he found he couldn’t muster up the strength to resist after the day’s events. He rolled his shoulders to ease the itch that had sudden sprung up between them and beckoned one of the templars stationed around the room’s perimeter, “Fetch Enchanter Anural for me.”

“At once, Knight-Captain.”

Somehow, the mages cleared a path for the templar without ever seeming to acknowledge his presence. A sixth sense that they all shared made Circle mages almost unconsciously aware of the passage of armoured figures, just as templars were constantly aware of and watching the mages.

The templar quickly returned with the Enchanter in tow. She looked understandably concerned to have been summoned. She came to a stop a few paces from him and smiled cautiously, “You wanted to speak to me?”

 “Yes, Enchanter. I regret to inform you that your missing associates are dead.” The civil response held none of the displeasure he felt at the events prompted by the futile search.

She didn’t even look upset, just suddenly very tired. “I can’t say I’m shocked to hear it. Thank you for your efforts, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen opened his mouth to ask why, or if she knew any more detail of the complaint against Alrik. But he stopped. The Knight-Commander had warned him against distractions. If the mages were being mistreated, she would address the problem. He certainly spent enough of his own time reprimanding templars who had been a little too over-zealous with their charges.

Instead he shook his head. “I am merely doing my duty.”

She gave him an odd look at the response, “Surprised as I am to say this about a templar - let alone a Knight-Captain - I almost believe you.”

Cullen gave her his own reproving look in return, “Every templar would say the same.” He gestured back at the refectory hall, “If you have any more concerns, I will bring them directly to the Knight-Commander. But do not allow me to disturb you further, Enchanter.”

The sky outside was fully dark by the time Cullen emerged from the Circle-proper with an internal sigh of relief. Flickering torches lit his path back to his officer where an on-duty templar stood with folded arms next to Orsino. The First Enchanter himself waited impatiently, purposefully ignoring the open annoyance of the templar beside him.

“Not all of us have the freedom to wander the Gallows at whatever Maker-forsaken hour we please, Knight-Captain.”

“Curfew won’t be an issue whilst you’re with me, First Enchanter,” Cullen sighed.

“Perhaps not, but I prefer not to require an escort just to return to my own quarters at night.” He started off down the corridor, leaving the templar to hurry after him with an irritated sigh, “Let’s get this sorry business done.”

If the First Enchanter was an unwelcome sight in Templar hall during his working hours, he was even less welcome post-curfew. Their route to the Phylactery chamber was met by more than a few stares. At least discipline meant that the stares quickly turned away whenever Cullen looked directly at the offending templars.

Even having visited the Phylactery chamber on multiple occasions – either to find an apostate’s phylactery, or to store the phylacteries of new arrivals – it never failed to leave him impressed and uncomfortable in equal measures. All that blood. The chantry maintained that the use of phylacteries wasn’t blood magic, and he had to trust that was true.

The side room dedicated to the phylacteries of dead mages had none of the grand scale of the main chamber. A few lonely phylacteries rested on the shelves set into the side of room. Once a year, on All Soul’s Day, the room would be cleared out and the contents of the phylacteries burnt on a pyre. Perhaps the Chantry hoped that a day dedicated to the memory of the death of Andraste would redeem those cursed by magic.

He set the dull phylactery on a shelf alongside the bare handful of others in the room and retreated with a shudder. Memories of the dead were not something he wanted to spend much time considering. The chantry service on All Soul’s Day he had assisted Meredith in leading only a month ago had left him with particularly intense nightmares that had taken weeks to fade to their usual milder horror.

“May Andraste guide you to find peace by the Maker’s side,” he murmured the ritual words as he strode from the balefully-lit confines of the chamber.

~~~~

Cullen barely registered the respectful distance left for him by the civilians on the ferry to the Gallows anymore. Instead, he faced into the cool breeze from the south that showed that the oppressive Kirkwall summer was finally fading into an autumnal chill. Not near as cold as Ferelden, but tolerable. Judging by their concealed shivers, his escort were decidedly less happy at the change in season.

Throughout his monthly meeting with Knight-Lieutenant Gwinn, a part of Cullen’s mind had been devoted to anticipating the arrival of Karras, Thrask, and the Starkhaven apostates. All being well, they would have arrived at the Gallows at some point during the drawn-out meeting. It had made his tolerance for the formal review of the templars transferred to the Kirkwall chantry even lower than it should have been. Gwinn had noticed, judging by the wry smile as she bid him farewell until next month.

As the ferry pulled into the Gallows’ dock, Cullen noted with mild curiosity that a higher than usual number of visitors stood at the jetty. They waited respectfully for the templars to disembark before boarding the ferry themselves.

In an odd reflection of his arrival in Kirkwall, a templar walked up to greet him as they stepped off the ferry. “The Knight-Commander would like you to join her in her office as soon as possible, Knight-Captain.”

“Of course. Thank you.” That sounded concerning. Perhaps the apostates had escaped before Karras and Thrask could reach them. Cullen moved towards the stairway leading up to the main entrance before he was stopped by a polite cough from the templar.

“The Knight-Commander temporarily closed the main entrance, Ser. I’m to turn away all but templars for the rest of the day. You’ll need to take one of the side entrances.”

Cullen’s blood ran cold. Usually, the gates stayed open until past sundown when the final merchants and Formari had packed up their stalls. There had been no private Circle or Order events scheduled. The only other reason to seal the Gallows could be an emergency in the Circle.

“Why was the Gallows sealed?” he asked with rising concern.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the Knight-Commander, Ser. I’ve been posted down here since the main entrance was closed.”

Cullen’s escort barely managed to keep pace with him as he strode up the stairway leading to the side entrance of the Gallows. The fading sunshine of late afternoon cast the main courtyard in a particularly grim light as Cullen entered. His tension eased as he saw that the courtyard contained none of the activity he would have expected in an emergency. But a higher than usual number of mages milled around in pockets as far from the templar guards as they could manage. An instinctive count showed there were likewise more templars than were usually assigned to the main courtyard, posted in regular intervals to keep the mages neatly enclosed.

He pushed the creeping unease at the sight of such a large gathering of mages to one side and strode over to the largest group, “Unless you have business out here, you must return to the Circle.”

The closest mage flinched back more than was strictly necessary. They could hardly have failed to notice his approach, “Your Knight-Commander brought us down here, Knight-Captain, and we’ve yet to be escorted back.” His thick accent marked him as a Starkhavener.

“Why?”

The mage blanched, “She said she had an example to set for us.” The man’s eyes flicked nervously to the platform at the head of the stairs to the Circle’s main entrance, “I don’t think we’ll be forgetting what kind of place the Kirkwall Circle is any time soon. Knight-Captain.” The mage hurried the title out as though afraid that he would be penalised for forgetting it.

The mage’s response left him more confused than before. Whatever Meredith had done, it was not something she had discussed with him before his departure that morning. And without being certain what Meredith’s orders had been, he could not order the templars to escort the mages back.

“Stay in the courtyard until I return.” He ordered over his shoulder as he left the oppressively muted atmosphere of the main courtyard.

He swept through the gates into Templar Hall and into the commanding officers’ corridor. The eerie tension in the courtyard left him certain that he was unlikely to find the positive news he had hoped for on his return to the Gallows.

“Ah, Cullen,” Meredith called out as she saw him enter her office doorway. “Karras and Thrask arrived soon after your departure for the Chantry this morning. Unfortunately, you were not present to hear the full report of their unorthodox success.” Cullen breathed an internal sigh of relief before she had even finished. Meredith waved a hand, “Ser Karras. Provide a summary for the Knight-Captain. It is, after all, his dedication that ensured the apostates’ recovery.”

He paced around to join Meredith as the pair saluted. Karras looked smugly satisfied, but Thrask seemed dejected. Judging by their expressions, Cullen had a tentative guess as to what form that success had taken.

“Knight-Commander. Knight-Captain. As ordered, Ser Thrask went on ahead to attempt to convince the apostates to surrender peacefully. My men and I waited a half-day’s march behind to give him his opportunity to ‘negotiate’.” He filled the word with as much disdain as he could manage and scowled at Thrask, “Contrary to our orders, Thrask brought outside help for his task. My men and I didn’t know until we arrived.”

“If I may, Sers, the apostates had shown themselves more than willing to attack templars when they first escaped. I predicted that a neutral party might be more likely to convince them to surrender.” Thrask turned his own disapproving glance to Karras, “And I was correct, Ser.”

Cullen frowned, “You had three days to plan prior to leaving Kirkwall. Why not suggest this to us?”

“The Order does not have much faith in a mercenary’s ability to deal with more delicate tasks, Ser. And most mercenaries are not known for their willingness to help without a sizeable bounty. If there had been no response, I would have proceeded as ordered.”

“This is the second time you have relied on mercenaries to complete your duties, Ser Thrask.”

Meredith glanced sharply at Thrask as Cullen spoke, “You did not mention this particular detail to me, Ser Thrask. Is this true?”

Thrask folded his arms. “It is, but I stand by the decision, Knight-Commander, Knight-Captain. The mercenary proved herself trustworthy the first time, and I believed it was the best course of action. If you disagree, I will readily forfeit my stipend to provide payment to her.”

It was a generous offer. Given the usual remuneration the Order offered to mercenaries, Thrask had just offered to go for many months without pay.

“And who is this mercenary who has stood by the Order on two occasions.”

“This would be the third occasion now, Knight-Captain. I believe you are familiar with the name Hawke.”

“Hawke,” Cullen stated with distaste, “I am indeed familiar with that name,”

“I may not approve of hiring mercenary thugs to do a templar’s work,” Karras said scornfully, “But she did get the job done. We brought the apostates back to the Gallows. The ones still alive are in the holding cells now.”

The odd phrasing caught Cullen’s attention, “How many did you recover?”

“The mercenary killed the robes that refused to give themselves up. One apprentice surrendered himself to Thrask. We arrested the rest. In all, we brought seven back to the Gallows, Knight-Captain.” Karras snorted, “Only four in the cells now though.”

Thrask looked pained.

“They attacked you in the Gallows itself?” That would explain the additional security, but not the gathering of mages in the courtyard.

“Three were executed,” interjected Meredith.

Cullen snapped his gaze to Meredith’s in surprise, “Surely there’s no precedent for execution?”

“An example had to be set. More than one of their number resorted to blood magic. Even one blood mage is dangerous. I chose to be merciful and execute only three of the apostates. But I will not have the remainder of the Starkhaven mages believe that such acts can go unpunished.”

Cullen recalled his own pleas to Knight-Commander Greagoir after the Right of Annulment had been revoked in Fereldan’s Circle. They could not risk even one blood mage in the Gallows. Perhaps Meredith was right, and they had a responsibility to prevent that by any means necessary. Even so, some part of him felt that execution did not sit well alongside a templar’s duty. That unease joined the tension that the atmosphere in the courtyard had evoked.

“Regardless. The Starkhaven mages now know that the templars here in Kirkwall will not be as lax as at the Starkhaven Circle,” she continued darkly, “Now that they understand that, I believe they may be allowed to safely associate with the Kirkwall mages. Unless you believe otherwise?”

Cullen tried to shake his unease. It was not his place to question his commanding officer. Blood mages _were_ dangerous. Their subtle influence could spread right from apprentices to the highest tiers of a Circle’s hierarchy and bring a Circle crashing down around them. Her actions had to be justified, surely.

“There is nothing to suggest they would be any more of a risk than the Kirkwall mages, Knight-Commander.” He could only pray they would not come to regret the decision.

He turned back to Thrask, “I am more concerned with the fact that Ser Thrask hired a mercenary without consultation. As he admits himself, mercenaries do not work without payment. And a templar cannot so consistently rely on outside assistance.” Internally, his concern focused more on Hawke herself. _Who is more trustworthy to an apostate than a fellow apostate?_ But without concrete proof, he dared not risk alienating a clear ally to the Order. He remained wary of once again stimulating the whispers behind his back after the breaking of the Circle. Paranoid. Sees enemies in every shadow. Bringing in an ally on charges of apostasy could well be grounds for suspension if he was wrong.

“It is rather concerning.” She turned back to the templars in front of her. “Ser Thrask. I will ensure that your mercenary is paid. But next time you feel the need to hire someone on behalf of the Order, kindly inform your superiors.” The words dripped with sarcasm. “Ser Karras, Ser Thrask. I am assigning the Starkhaven apostates to your care. Now, unless there is anything further to report?”

“Nothing, Knight-Commander.”

“Excellent. Dismissed.”

The pair saluted and turned sharply to leave. They had barely passed through the doorway before Orsino stormed into the office, robes swirling around his feet. It seemed to matter little to the elf that he barged past heavily armed templars. Cullen had been on the receiving end of more than one of Orsino’s rants, but the anger that burned in the mage now was no match to any of those. The First Enchanter’s staff was still safely on his back, but Cullen could easily recognise the clenching of hands that signalled he was moments away from grabbing the weapon.

Cullen stopped Orsino with a gauntleted hand on his chest before he could push his way further into the office. “Watch yourself, First Enchanter,” he warned the mage. He flicked a quick glance back to Meredith before narrowing his focus back on the furious mage. At her signal, he would be more than happy to purge the mage’s mana. If Orsino made any threatening moves, Cullen wouldn’t hesitate.

“How could you do this, Meredith?” Orsino spat. He glared over Cullen’s shoulder to where Meredith stood calmly. “What happened to your duty as protectors?” He turned his furious gaze to Cullen. “And you, Knight-Captain. I had almost convinced myself that you at least understood your duty. Clearly that was a fatal error.”

The anger was chillingly familiar to Cullen and he flinched back almost imperceptibly. It hadn’t happened in months, but suddenly he was almost convinced that a Rage demon lurked behind the mage’s eyes. He clamped down on that fear. “What do you know of our duty, First Enchanter?” he snapped. Any doubt dissolved in the face of Orsino’s rage. “I have seen precisely what happens when a Circle falls to blood magic. The Knight-Commander has a duty to keep the Circle safe above all else.”

Orsino barked out an incredulous laugh, “Safe?! If your definition of safe is three dead mages on the steps of the Gallows, I would dearly love to see what you consider unsafe.”

Cullen kept his palm on the First Enchanter’s chest. As much as he desperately wanted to neutralise the threat of the mage’s magic, he would wait for that signal. “No. You would not,” he answered curtly.

Merdith stepped up to stand next to Cullen. “Every one of those mages were potential maleficarum. It was mercy to let even some of them live. I am doing my duty, protecting you all from your curse.”

“Protection?!” Orsino scoffed and shook his head in mute disbelief.

“I suppose it is too much to ask for you trust that I have the Circle’s best interests in mind.”

“I find that harder to believe than ever,” Orsino growled in response.

“It matters little to me. I will do my duty regardless. Now you may do yours and ensure that the remaining mages do not fall to temptation. There is one apprentice among their number who was wise enough to flee.  I must insist he take his Harrowing as soon as possible.”

“So that he can inevitably fail by being underprepared, and you may justify your actions? No.”

“If you are so convinced that no mage falls to temptation, you should have no concerns.”

“You know as well as I do that training is required to provide the mental fortitude to face a demon!”

“The apprentice is twenty, Orsino. He is more than old enough to face the Harrowing.”

“The sooner he faces his Harrowing, the safer we will all be. Maker knows what forbidden magics he may have been exposed to.” Cullen added tightly. It might not guarantee that the apprentice would not fall to temptation. Nothing could guarantee that. But it was a step towards a little safety.

“I will assess him. If and only if I deem him ready will I approve his Harrowing.” Orsino hissed, “But you cannot deflect this discussion, Meredith. I have no choice but to bring a complaint to the Grand Cleric.”

It was Meredith’s turn to become angry, “You will not disturb her Grace with this petty grievance.”

Orsino visibly settled as if Meredith’s sudden spike of anger had finally calmed him, “I have every right to speak to her.” He glared at Cullen as if daring him to refuse, “Knight-Captain, you may escort me to the Kirkwall Chantry if Meredith is too afraid to face the Maker after her actions.”

Meredith waved a dismissive hand at the suggestion, “I will escort you myself, Orsino. I have nothing to fear. Her Grace will understand my decision.”

Orsino finally became aware of Cullen’s restraining hand and the unspoken threat it implied from a templar. If he saw the ruthlessly controlled dread in Cullen’s eyes, he didn’t acknowledge it. He took a casual step back and spread his hands out from his sides, “Tomorrow, then. I will see you punished for this atrocity.” He nodded sharply and strode out of the office as quickly as he had entered.

Meredith sighed in irritation as she exchanged a weary look with Cullen, “It seems I will now be otherwise engaged tomorrow. I trust you will be able to oversee the transition of the Starkhaven mages into the general mage population in my place?” She paced back to settle herself behind her desk, “The sooner we can return to some semblance of normality in the Gallows, the better.”

With the mage gone, the readiness with which Cullen had been unconsciously holding himself eased. “Of course, Knight-Commander,” he responded, unconsciously kneading the sudden headache behind his temples, “I will arrange for Knights-Templar to join you in escorting the First Enchanter tomorrow.” No chance of him being willing to let the First Enchanter anywhere out of sight of templars after that demonstration.

“Please do.” She lifted a quill and pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her, no doubt to write a letter to Knight-Commander Carsten. The Starkhaven templars needed some good news. “There seems little point in apologising for Orsino’s vitriol. A mage can never understand what it is to be a templar. Nonetheless, your support is appreciated.” She saluted from her seated position, “Good day, Cullen.”

As Cullen left Meredith’s office, he couldn’t help but notice that Orsino’s door remained open. The usually animated mage sat slumped at his desk, head cradled in his hands.

One year since Fereldan’s Circle was freed, almost to the day. An anniversary he had prayed never to remember. The benefit of time might have stopped those memories from haunting his every waking moment, but they were as fresh as they had been on his arrival in Kirkwall. Maker forbid the anger of a mage collapsed another Circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More random notes from this chapter
> 
> ~~~~
> 
> Was Alrik one of Meredith’s allies? I'd say no. She doesn't agree with his suggestion for blanket tranquility. Plus, Alrik was working behind her back. After Alrik dies, Cullen doesn't seem at all upset (unlike his horror at the dead templars in the chantry and apart from being understandably suspicious), and no templars are sad to see him gone. That implies that no one likes him, which is totally fine by me. I would have loved to have Cullen outright accuse Alrik of misconduct. Unfortunately, that doesn't stick to canon, so he rolls out the accusation to derail the conversation.
> 
> Cullen does beg for the Circle to be completely annulled in Ferelden due to the risk of blood magic. Cold-blooded execution doesn't stray too far from that, so he manages to convince himself that it must have been the right course of action. He would find less and less justification as time goes on, but he’s only willing and able to push back once he’s more experienced and has more security in his position. Even so, he is still utterly loyal at this stage, so there’s no way he would show anything other than a united front. To the outside, he would therefore seem just like Meredith. 
> 
> At some point, Meredith would have felt she could implicitly trust Cullen. She’s been letting him get on with things, ready to course-correct him if needed or step in if anyone complains about someone who might be considered too young for the position (Although young officers aren't unheard of, and there’s a big supporting command structure). But there would have to be a point where she thinks she can trust him to follow in her footsteps. Although Cullen protests the execution at first, he is a loyal ally once Orsino comes into the picture (where Harmoran would have been a neutral mediator). As far as Orsino and the mages are concerned, of course, this is a major backwards step.


	14. Endings and Beginnings

**Harvestmere 9:31 Dragon**

The library where he stood his watch duty was peaceful. Watch duty there always was. Cullen rolled his shoulders slightly to settle the weight of his greatsword. For a moment, he had been so sure he wasn’t carrying it. He continued scanning the room dutifully. He knew exactly what, or rather who, he wanted to see, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

Suddenly, there she was, robes whispering over the smooth flagstones. His heart skipped a beat as she walked over with a brilliant smile on her face. The smile she reserved for him.

“H-hello, Apprentice Surana.”

She smiled wryly, “I think we’re a bit past that formality.”

A soft palm caressed his cheek. For a fraction of a second, so brief that he was sure it was his imagination, the knife-points of talons pressed into his skin. The breath that whispered into his ear carried the ozone smell of lyrium. And the warm lips that kissed his held that metallic, searing taste that he craved down to his bones. He almost leaned forwards and brought his arms around to hold her close to him. Almost forgot himself in a kiss that held everything he desired and more.

He scrambled back, away from the lie, gauntlets slipping as they caught on Beval’s decayed body. “No! I would never have done that,” he protested desperately, “Stay away!”

She sat outside the barrier as though she hadn’t been close enough to touch him mere seconds ago. “Stay away?” A familiar shy smile flickered across her face, “Didn’t you say I could come talk to you any time?”

Maker knew he had tried to escape his prison often enough that it wasn’t even worth trying any more, and yet she reached toward him as if it didn’t exist. “There’s nothing to fear from me, Cullen. I can’t bear to see you keep yourself trapped in there. Won’t you take my hand and let me help you out of this nightmare? You know me.”

He wanted desperately wanted to believe that taking her hand would break this nightmare. He had truly wanted the chance to get to know her once too. Until a demon had stolen her face and twisted that shameful wish into torment. “I would kill you if I could, Demon…” he whispered.

“You desire her death?” mocked an echoing voice in his head.

Her slight elven form bulged and twisted with a sickening sound of stretching and snapping bones. Eyes that had looked at him with nothing but compassion filled with the lambent purple glow of a demon. Suddenly, he stood again in the Harrowing chamber, blade in hand, as an abomination wearing her form sauntered towards him with a twisted smile.

“She failed her Harrowing, Ser Cullen! You must kill her. Give her that mercy.”

He lurched as Greagoir’s commanding tone almost compelled him to raise the sword and obey. The abomination took another slow step closer and laid razor talons against his cheek in a brutal parody of her earlier caress.

Clearly some part of him hadn’t broken quite enough yet. A single tear tracked down his cheek. Against every instinct engrained by years of training, he squeezed his eyes shut. "This is not real. Leave me be." _Or kill me now._ A desire even the demon hadn’t offered him yet.

His cracked and tired voice echoed back at him from the stone walls of the suddenly empty antechamber. For a moment, he was grateful to hear nothing but the melody of shrieks from the demons and abominations and the screams from the harrowing chamber. To see nothing but cold stone and corpses so decayed and shattered that even the weakest spirits didn’t bother to possess them anymore. Didn’t bother to send the bodies of his friends crawling to press their accusing glares up against his prison. _This_ was reality. No one was coming to free the tower. He pulled in a shuddering breath of the putrid air.

“I could never leave you for long, sweet templar.” He flinched as _her_ voice, _her_ breath, tickled his ear.

“N-no. P-please…” he couldn’t even feel shame as he stammered out the words and more tears raced after the first. Not even a minute to rest. From somewhere, he heard Uldred’s coldly inhuman laugh. He hardly knew anymore if it was real or just another hallucination. Maybe the abomination had come to watch him break, piece by agonising piece.

She flickered into his view again. He lurched back, then recoiled forwards as the humming vibration from the barrier threatened to shake his weakened body apart. Nowhere to retreat. No way to attack. The vision would simply reform right around his hand if he lashed out. No choice but to crouch on his hands and knees with her face inches from his own.

She grabbed his trembling hand and smiled at him. For a moment, her eyes flashed a solid, crystalline blue.

“Please, what?” She caught his eyes with her own and then traced his armoured form with a burning desire he would never have imagined she would show. Ozone breath tickled his cheek. It tugged at the empty spaces inside him and reminded him of a song he wished he could hear again. A taste that lingered on her lips. “I’ve seen you looking. Why reject what I offer freely?”

He snatched his hand back from her iron grip and turned his head away from her naked body. “This is not what I want,” he protested weakly. He cursed himself internally for the part of him that _did_ want what was offered. _Demons will tempt you with your deepest wishes. Always be vigilant. You must never submit. Never take what is offered. Purge yourself of weakness. Or you will be lost to the Maker for all eternity._ Whatever he had learned as a recruit, it was getting harder to believe that submitting could be worse than what he endured now. It was getting harder even to differentiate reality and fiction. The deaths of his friends Maker knew how long ago seemed a mercy.

He closed his eyes and pushed himself into the kneeling posture of prayer that seemed to have etched itself into his tired muscles. “Maker, forgive me for my failings. For having desired what I should not. Blessed are the corrupt and wicked who do not falter-”

“You will not shut me out forever. I would wait eternity for you. Your courage will make it all the sweeter when you finally take what I offer.” Her gentle voice morphed into the painfully beautiful voice of his tormentor, “And they all do.” A talon caressed his cheek, leaving cold fire in its wake, “I will wait as long as you need me to, my beautiful, brave champion of the just. Sing your chant. I am the only reality with which you need concern yourself. And I will always _always_ be here for you, Cullen.”

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the j-just,” he stammered out. The words felt tainted after having come from a demon’s lips. But he held onto them tightly even so.

“Never fear,” the demon whispered lovingly. Its melodic laugh twined through the screams from the Harrowing chamber. “I could never abandon you as your fellows so cruelly did.”

“The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil. And grew jealous of the life. They could not feel, could not touch. In blackest envy were the demons born.” He forced the murmured verses to override the demon’s voice. He had the shivering certainty that the moment he forgot the words of the chant was the moment he would lose himself forever.

“I am nothing so petty as Envy.” The mocking words were so faint that Cullen was half convinced they were a hallucination to join the rest.

His head drooped to rest on his folded hands. His eyes flickered closed briefly before he wrenched them open in panic. "No," he whispered. Sleep was too dangerous.

The snow was a pristine, glittering white. In every direction, the peaks of the Frostbacks marched out as far as he could see, fading into the distant haze and brilliant blue of the sky. A gentle wind ruffled unruly hair and pulled slightly at his coat. The smooth mountain plateau was blissfully quiet and empty, with nothing but the soft rush of the wind and endless space. The air tasted beautifully pure and untainted as he heaved in a deep, unrestricted breath with a smile.

A cool hand slipped into his and he turned to the woman beside him. She smiled up at him. Her vibrant elven eyes might not have been that crystalline shade that seemed to dance at the edge of his memories, but they were just as captivating. She indicated a cabin, their cabin, behind her with a tilt of her head.

"There’s food waiting for us. I imagine you’re hungry after the journey up here. Shall we?" A mischievous grin that promised plenty twisted her lips, “Unless you’d rather skip the meal?”

The snow crunched under his boots as he took a step closer and claimed her other hand. The peace was perfect. Infinitely better than…

Her head suddenly whipped around. An angry glare twisted her delicate features as they morphed into the cold beauty of his tormentor. The vision abruptly flickered out of existence.

Cullen lurched awake and the punishing truth of reality came crashing back around him. Sleep, or at least unconsciousness, had claimed him after all. He could barely muster up the energy to be grateful that the dream had shattered. Better to simply get what pleasure he could out of the moment of peace while it lasted.

“Andraste give me the strength to endure,” he whispered over his folded hands. An eternity of torment. Did he even mean the prayer anymore?

He broke off from the chant and cocked his head with the ragged remains of curiosity. The constant background noise from outside the antechamber had shifted slightly. It almost sounded like a battle. Maybe the demons and abominations were bored.

His heart fractured a little more as the antechamber door creaked open. It seemed that the brief respite had been just another of the demon’s cruel tricks. Sudden anger filled him. From some untapped reserve he found the strength to jump up and shout at the familiar figure that had stepped into the antechamber, staff in hand.

"This trick again?” He accused the apparition, “I know what you are. I will stay strong.”

An unexpected look of shock crossed horrifically familiar features that had tortured him for days or weeks or months and … a Circle Enchanter? And two unfamiliar armed and armoured companions? With a sinking stomach he realised that the demon must have found reached even further into his mind. Now it would falsify a rescue like the reverse of some tale of a knight in shining armour. A pitiful new desire that was growing to replace older, more shameful ones. He didn’t even know which was worse anymore; to deny desire yet again and be left with nothing but abominations and rotting corpses and the promise of more torment, or to finally submit to the demon.

And yet it wasn't an illusion. There wasn’t any room left for hope or gratitude, just churning anger. The demon had shown him just how treacherous those feelings had been.

She showed the same innocence that had been seared from him in painful inches. “I hope your compassion hasn't doomed us all,” Was all he could say as the small party made their way into the Harrowing chamber. He turned away from her face before it threatened to flicker into the features of his tormentor.

Cullen limped through the halls of the Circle. The carnage in every room and corridor was even more horrific for how familiar they had once been to him. His home. His knees buckled, and he nearly fell to the floor. The Enchanter reached out a helping hand. Cullen flinched away with a clatter as he hit the wall on the opposite side of the corridor. “Stay back!” He had no weapon, and there wasn’t a drop of lyrium left in his blood to properly defend himself. He tried and failed to pull weakly at a song that had faded to an imperceptible whisper. _Maker, please,_ he begged. He held out a hand to ward the mage away as his breathing hitched in short gasps.

“You are safe now.”

Cullen would have laughed at Greagoir’s kindly words if the ability hadn’t been taken from him. _Safe?! No one is ‘safe’ from magic._ He denied the sympathy in the voice of a man who had left him to be tortured at the hands of a demon for Maker knew how long. The Knight-Commander hadn’t been dead after all. Just waiting as they had suffered and died for their duty until only Cullen was left alive. Perhaps this was all one convoluted vision, and he would wake once again to the coldly beautiful face of Desire.

But after everything he had endured – an endless time of torment at the hands of mages, living proof of how treacherous magic was - Greagoir planned to revoke the Right of Annulment. If nothing else, this was proof that Desire was gone. Cullen would never wish for this ending. Surely Greagoir could recognise the danger. Even one blood mage or abomination would collapse the whole tower all over again. The Circle had to be annulled. It was the only way they could be safe.

Cullen’s eyes snapped open and he blinked away the icy terror left by the tatters of the dream. His eyes automatically darted around his surroundings. Window. Bookshelf. Armour stand. Familiar, safe sights. No face lit by a sickening magical glow with yet another fresh torment.

He took a few deep breaths to stem the powerful nausea and resisted the temptation to lean over his chamber pot. Desire was gone. Dead. The relief at that knowledge was as powerful as it had been a year ago. He had purged anything that it could use against him.

Fereldan’s Circle was still safe. There had been no more blood mages or demons. Whether that was sheer luck or the Maker’s own will was a question that would never be answered.

He sighed and mechanically armed himself for the day. A precise half dose of lyrium quickly followed to join the liquid that already flowed through his veins. Kirkwall’s Circle was safe too. He would make sure it remained that way.

Maker knew, he wished he could do away with what little sleep he did manage. And there was enough to be done that he might as well take advantage of those early waking hours when the Gallows was still as quiet as it could be.

His customary brief stop in the chantry served to smother whatever traces of the dream were left to him. He was glad to note that the affirmed and chantry Sisters had finally stopped paying attention to his odd hours. Better not to have their curious gazes watching his despairing prayers.

The commanding officers’ corridor was likewise quiet when he arrived. Curfew wouldn’t be lifted until dawn, and even Meredith didn’t arrive before then. The templar on watch duty stifled a yawn and saluted as precisely as he could manage given the hour.

“The castellan is waiting for you, Ser.”

Cullen nodded his acknowledgement and sighed internally. The castellan was the only person in the Gallows who seemed to work stranger hours than he himself did. No doubt he had as many complaints now that the Starkhaven mages had joined the rest of the Gallows inhabitants as he had levelled at Cullen when quarantine was first established.

The man waited on a bench in the small internal courtyard off the corridor. He cracked his eyes open at the sound of Cullen’s approach.

“How can I help you, castellan?”

“I have a name, Knight-Captain,” the man said wearily.

“You do, castellan,” Cullen acknowledged.

He threw up his hands in exasperation and stood from the bench. “I won’t take your time for long. The Starkhaven mages have been settled into the new routine. Do let me know if you or the Knight-Commander feel the need to adopt another hundred mages and leave them in quarantine for two months. Despite what you may think, things do not fall smoothly into place when you shuffle that many people around.”

“It was hardly a simple task for us either.” Ensuring there were sufficient templars to keep the lives of two parallel streams of mages separate was one headache he was happy to lose. Organising and overseeing the transition while the two communities were finally combined had hardly been better. “Nonetheless, your efforts are appreciated. Maker forbid anything like this happens again, but if it does, you’ll have exactly as much warning as I do.”

The castellan scowled at the sarcastic offer. “You still have those four apostates left in quarantine. How long do I have to deal with that?”

“That’s the Knight-Commander’s prerogative. The apprentice will be allowed to join his fellows if he passes his Harrowing. But if it were my decision, the remaining three would never rejoin the general mage population.”

“Of course. Why make my life easy?” He shrugged his shoulders in response to Cullen’s frown, “Yes, yes, I’m aware it’s for our protection.” He looked up at the star-filled sky and sighed, “Good day, Knight-Captain.” He waved an irritated hand as he left the darkened courtyard.

The reports that Cullen had left for the morning waited for him as he entered his office. It might have been wishful thinking, but the pile seemed smaller than it had been for the past week. For a time, it had seemed as if every second mage had some petty complaint that he had no choice but to review. The hierarchy of the Circles was looser than the rigid chain of command that characterised the Templar Order. Add Marcher rivalry that he hadn’t really been aware existed into the mix, and chaos was guaranteed until the Starkhaven mages found their places in Kirkwall.

There at least seemed to have been one faint advantage to Meredith’s grim decision. Whatever latest bitter complaint emerged between a Kirkwaller and a Starkhavener, they were consistently polite when to the templars. But there was a new tension that simmered underneath the outwardly compliant mages. Cullen couldn’t help but wonder how long this unexpected period of calm would last. Kinloch Hold has been calm, up until the very moment it had fallen. Perhaps tighter restrictions would be necessary, even after Meredith’s clear message to the mages.

~~~~

It hadn’t been explicitly stated, but Thrask’s updated assignment was an obvious sign of Meredith’s disapproval. The Knight-Commander overrode duty assignments rarely enough that a permanent change from Kirkwall patrols to guard duty over the Gallows courtyard and docks was as clear as a formal reprimand. At least it made the man easier to find than Karras, still fortunate enough to have kept his assignment overseeing sweeps through the Darktown refugee camps and Lowtown.

Cullen passed through the courtyard and down to the docks where templars in full plate supervised the unloading of the latest shipment of lyrium. He frowned at the sight of a frustratingly familiar figure in conversation with Ser Thrask where he oversaw his men. He offered a short bow to Mother Anastase, watching the proceedings with a critical eye, before turning to address Hawke.

“Hawke. I’ve been hearing rumours about you." He watched for her reaction with narrowed eyes, "I hope they’re not true.”

She laid a hand on her heart, “Only good ones, I hope.”

“Knight-Captain.” Thrask saluted, “Serah Hawke was just enquiring after the fate of the Starkhaven apostates.”

“Yes. I see the reputation of the Gallows was well deserved,” she accused Thrask, “I thought they’d be safest in the Circle. I didn’t realise that meant that half of them would end up dead after all my hard work.”

“The Circle must be protected, Serah Hawke.” Cullen responded sharply. “The Knight-Commander commends you for your service in capturing dangerous apostates. But perhaps you might provide us with more detail on how you convinced them to surrender?”

“I would love to, Knight-Captain, but I’m afraid I have an appointment with the Deep Roads to keep today.”

He blinked, nonplussed. “Why in Andraste’s name would you do that?” Surely no Fereldan refugee in their right mind would want to see more darkspawn after fleeing the Blight.

“I’m a penniless Fereldan. I go where there’s coin. Not all of us have the Templar Order behind us.” She started backing up towards the jetties, “The Deep Roads await.”

“Maker guide you in your venture, Serah Hawke,” with the traces of bafflement still lingering in his tone. At least that would solve one headache, however helpful she might have been. He nodded a curt farewell, “If you would excuse us.”

Cullen noted with disappointment as she left that she was once again armed only with a short blade. No chance for him to more closely evaluate her ‘polearm’.

He turned back to Thrask.  “I’ve not yet seen any reports from you or Ser Karras regarding the Starkhaven apostates, Ser Thrask.”

“Knight-Lieutenant Karras is otherwise engaged with his duties, Ser.” Thrask glanced up the main stairway to where the remaining apostates would be idling under the watchful gaze of a chaperone in the shade of the courtyard. “They are ... unhappy, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “Should I be concerned?”

“It’s just talk. Understandable given their situation, Ser.” A vague hint of criticism, mild enough that it could be ignored, coloured the words.

“I trust you will keep me informed if there is reason for concern. Talk can become dangerous.” Cullen responded darkly.

Thrask nodded with hesitant acknowledgment, “I will keep an eye on them, Ser.”

Every templar on the docks collectively cringed and there were a few hissed curses as a particularly loud tinkle signalled the corner of a box hitting the ground. Out of the corner of his eyes, Cullen saw a dockhand wince under Mother Anastase’s stern glare.

The watching templars split to allow him to pass through and inspect the damaged corner. _Thank the Maker the shipments are cushioned._ Lyrium shortages due to civil war in Orzammar were reasonable. A lyrium shortage due to a clumsy dockhand was a headache he would rather not face.

This close to the crate, the concentrated contents gave off an audible song to a templar that was almost painful in its intensity. It was hardly surprising that the templar guards stood a generous distance away. The complete unawareness of non-templars to the call of processed lyrium quite astonishing, given how powerful it was to his own senses.

Mother Anastase joined him, “Well, Knight-Captain?”

“Undamaged, Mother.”

“Have a care,” she snapped to the dockhand, “You are exceedingly lucky the shipment is intact.” She looked over the templars standing guard, “Knight-Captain, perhaps one of your men might assist.”

“Ah, yes, Mother,” Cullen agreed reluctantly. He hadn’t the authority to refuse her request, as much as he would rather not subject any templar to that particular discomfort. He glanced back at the templars behind him. With full helms, it was hard to judge who was the youngest and therefore least likely to struggle in such close proximity to that much lyrium.

He was saved from the decision as the foreman scrambled up to them with a deep bow. “My apologies, Mother. I’ll get one of my regular boys to take over right now. Can’t rely on these Fereldans.” He held up his hands in apology as he belatedly registered the Fereldan Knight-Captain in front of him, “No offense meant, Messere.”

“Please do,” she responded firmly, “Or the cost to replace any losses will be taken from your fee.”

Cullen bowed shortly and backed away, “If you would excuse me, Mother.”

She nodded her approval and turned an even more critical eye back to the proceedings. Cullen passed on a final reminder to Thrask as he strode past. “Regular reports on the apostates, Ser Thrask. If there is even the vaguest hint that they are not as innocent as they claim, we _must know_.” The words cracked sharply in the air.

He swept back through the main courtyard with a huff of irritation. Chasing after late reports was not the best use of his time. He wondered with a quick flash of anger if this was an inappropriate response from Thrask following Meredith’s decision. The Circle's safety could not be compromised thanks to one templar's sensibilities.

The remaining three Starkhaven apostates watched him hostilely as he passed. He returned their hostility with a flat stare of his own. Maker knew what forbidden magics they had been exposed to in their two months away from a Circle. He could only pray that Thrask kept as close an eye on them as he had assured them he would.

Orsino managed a tight nod of greeting as Cullen passed by on his return to his office. Every inch of his posture, from his uncharacteristically slow stride to his slumped shoulders showed the mage’s continued dejection.

To no one’s surprise but Orsino’s, the Elthina had chosen not to sanction Meredith. For a Grand Cleric to speak out against a templar Knight-Commander would have sent a shockwave throughout the entire Order. Instead, she had maintained the status quo. Whatever support Orsino had hoped for had never emerged.

Cullen had half expected to hear yet another raging argument on their return from the chantry. But the corridor had been oddly quiet. Discrete enquires with the assigned escorts told him there hadn’t even been any arguments when Elthina had made her decision. Just satisfaction from Meredith and complete disbelief from Orsino that had left him mute for the entire return trip. Orsino hadn’t said a word more than he needed to them for the entire week.

“Did you know?”

The accusatory demand caught Cullen just as he pushed the door to his office open.

“Excuse me, First Enchanter?”

“Did you know what Meredith was going to do to those apostates _you_ ordered captured?”

“Whether I knew or not is irrelevant. It was the right decision to ensure the Circle is protected from blood magic.” He had long since pushed his doubt to one side, and Orsino certainly didn’t need to hear that he had held any.

“Because every mage is just moments away from blood magic,” Orsino replied acidly. He scowled in response to whatever he saw in Cullen’s face and changed the subject, “How many more disciplinary hearings are there today? Would you like to punish any more mages for calling each other names?”

Orsino’s participation in reviewing the complaints of mages in the Circle during the transition of the past week had been anything but the subdued attitude he had shown everywhere else. Every single disciplinary decision that Cullen had made had been strongly contested, as though Orsino hoped to make up for the deaths of the three mages. Cullen could wholeheartedly understand the sentiment, even if he didn’t approve of its application.

Cullen let the sarcasm pass. “There are none today. It seems your mages have finally realised they gain little by arguing with the Starkhaveners.”

“They are all ‘my’ mages now, Knight-Captain,” A trace of his former fire filtered back into his tone, “And I will ensure they are represented properly, however much you try to cripple my ability to protect them.”

Cullen tilted his head in acknowledgement, “As is your responsibility. Matters of Circle safety and forbidden magic are ours.”

“I have learned my lesson, Knight-Captain,” Orsino remarked darkly as he entered his own office, “Your definition of safety does not correspond to mine.”

~~~~

It was late in the evening before Cullen managed to attend to a task that he felt he could no longer avoid. The main thoroughfare of the Circle was already quiet by the time he entered on his way to the well-guarded entrance to the subterranean holding cells.

There was little to differentiate the holding cells over the rest of the mage’s quarters in the Gallows. The corridors were possibly a little quieter without the sound of patrolling templars or gossiping mages. The cells themselves contained only the bare necessities rather than comforts of the converted cells in the upper levels. But to Cullen, the corridors felt somehow more cramped, as if their subterranean nature had moved the high ceilings and wide corridors a little closer. The stifling corridors were a part of the Gallows that he was happy to avoid whenever possible.

He had overheard more than one intense discussion between templars as to which was the worse assignment. The punishing sunshine of the main courtyard, or the dull tedium of the holding cells. It was hardly a surprise then to see that the templars stationed at the entrance were engrossed in an intense card game. The three Knights-Templar and their Knight-Corporal scrambled up hurriedly as they heard Cullen’s approach. The corridor echoed with the sound of their quick salutes. Knight-Lieutenant Lovett eased up a little more slowly, although his salute was just as precise.

“Knight-Captain. Come to check on Idunna, I assume?”

“I have. Although I imagine I would have heard if she had caused any problems.” Heard and watched Meredith wield the brand. Maker knew it would be near impossible to contain a dedicated blood mage for any great length of time when they had a readily available source of power under their skin.

“She complained plenty during the first two week, but she’s settled down now.” He paused for a moment, “I’ll admit, I’m glad my month is almost over. I haven’t faced this much boredom since my days as a Knight-Templar.” He waved a hand to the stiff templars beside him, “Although the company is perhaps more interesting than staring at a corridor for hours.”

“I imagine boredom is better than the alternative.”

“That it is, Knight-Captain. But on that subject. Idunna has requested books. It would be easier to make sure she stays a model prisoner if we give her something to distract herself with.”

“We have plenty of copies of the Chant. She can’t do any harm by reading that,” Cullen sighed.

Lovett chuckled, “Assuming she doesn’t die of boredom, I’d say you’re right, Ser.”

Cullen smirked despite himself. The Chant had been drilled into all of them enough times that most found the thought of having nothing to read but that vaguely horrific. At least the huge tome would be enough to keep her occupied.

He and Lovett glanced back down the corridor in curiosity at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. A familiar Knight-Templar came rushing around the corner and drew to a halt with a quick salute. “Knight-Captain! I came as quickly as I could.”

Her agitation did not bode well. “What is it, Ser Tauriel?”

“Anders, that Fereldan clinic mage? He left for the Deep Roads this afternoon.”

“The Deep Roads?” He closed his eyes for a long second. The Deep Roads. He did not believe in coincidence.

“Yes, Ser. He joined the Tethras expedition. It seems they finally found the guide they were looking for. Anders and a few other Fereldans out of Lowtown were hired on as guards at the last minute.”

A few other Fereldens being his own personal headache, Hawke. That sounded an awful lot like they were both fleeing. Or perhaps Anders really had become a Grey Warden at some point between his escape from Fereldan’s Circle and his arrival in Kirkwall.

“I would assume they know they’re harbouring a potential apostate?”

“Anders isn’t making much of an effort to hide that fact, Ser. But if he’s passing himself off as a Grey Warden, they’d have no reason to suspect anything.”

Cullen heaved in a deep sigh. He felt a quick flash of an unworthy thought. Maker willing, they would lose themselves in the Deep Roads and cease to be a headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, we reach the end of Act 1. I enjoy writing the Kinloch Hold flashbacks more than I probably should. It's tempting to put all the snips together on their own.
> 
> The templars made some decisions in DA2 that don’t quite fit the ‘Kirkwall templars are totally heartless and evil’ image. You would have thought that Meredith wouldn't have let Grace just wander free around the Gallows. They also let Idunna live and don’t make her Tranquil if you hand her over to the templars, they just imprison her as you would any other criminal (which she definitely is). A lot of what we hear of the Kirkwall templars is from biased sources of information when it comes to Circles: Grace and Anders. Meanwhile, Bethany and Ella say there are good templars in the Gallows. I’m stripping out what could be taken as anti-templar bias and using these little quirks to justify the fact that most of my templars aren't completely terrible people, even if they do work in an inherently oppressive system.


	15. Signs of the Future

**Drakonis 9:32 Dragon**

The final waning light of evening filled Templar Hall’s chantry as Cullen entered. A paltry handful of recruits clad in formal templar robes knelt in neat rows before the serene statue of Andraste. The bright polished armour of their honour guard – arrayed around the perimeter of the chantry – caught and reflected the light of the eternal flame until the Knights-Templar almost rivalled the gleam of the statue.

Crisp salutes sounded as he strode through the ranks of nervous recruits and turned to study them with folded arms. Too few. Wilmod. Keran. The other recruits who had been captured by the blood mages. They should have been preparing to face their vigils with their fellows. Instead, five lived a kind of half-life. Too advanced to be considered recruits, and yet they would remain so until he could be utterly convinced that they harboured no demons. And five were dead. At his hands, or the hands of a blood mage.

The chant echoed from the cahmber’s high ceiling as the recruits joined in with Mother Anastase’s melodic Chantry service. In between those chanted verses, the recruits arrayed in front of him eyed him apprehensively. Word had inevitably spread about the severe Knight-Captain who had executed two of their number as abominations, condemned five more to ten years as recruits and restricted them all to the Gallows. Add rumours from Kinloch Hold and his position as Meredith’s second-in-command, and he was well aware that his was hardly the most comforting of faces for them. He could not complain if it meant they took the responsibilities of a templar more seriously, as much as he might have empathised as a recruit.

Mother Anastase stepped back as the last strains of the Chant faded away. She nodded sternly to him as she left the chantry. The vigil and initiations were a private Templar Order affair, a rare aspect that the Chantry would not interfere with, whatever other dominance they might claim over the Order.

Cullen paced forwards to stand in front of the recruits and looked over the half-familiar faces. Somehow, this duty felt more significant than many of the other tedious tasks that filled his day. These recruits were joining the ranks of templars that he would be expected to protect whilst also throwing them time and again into danger in the name of duty.

“Each one of you has trained for years in preparation for what lies ahead. You face your vigils tonight to ready yourselves to enter into the Maker’s service as a shield against the dangers of magic.”

He met the eyes of each individual recruit as he spoke. They all looked so young. And yet some of them would be his age, or thereabouts. Barely three years ago he had faced the vigil himself. He hadn’t understood then what being a templar meant. It felt immeasurably important to him that he convey something of that painfully-earned understanding to them so that they would avoid unnecessary suffering.

“You have sung the words. We are the peacekeepers. The lights in the shadow. There is no higher calling and no harder duty. You must be ever careful and ever vigilant against those who seek to use their powers against others.” He passed a final look over the small group and nodded, “May the Maker guide you and Andraste give you strength.”

The recruits looked as nervous as he had felt before his own vigil. They rose from their kneeling positions and filed hesitantly after their honour guard to their private cells.

Although a Knight-Captain was not expected to stand watch over the vigils, he joined the honour guard nonetheless. The peace of the chantry was familiar, and certainly better than the high likelihood of another night of restless and broken sleep. Instead, his night was filled with the rustle of robes and muted clank of armour as the honour guard shifted position.

He sealed the chantry doors behind Lovett as the man entered with a small chest of concentrated lyrium vials. In hindsight, it was obvious why Knight-Captain Harmoran had handed the initiation itself off to Cullen. A man struggling with lyrium addiction would never have coped. The memory of that first intense dose was one a templar carried for life.

One by one, the recruits swore their vows and claimed their first draught until a cluster of initiates stood with newly confident smiles on their faces. Lovett saluted Cullen in acknowledgement. A trace of sadness that he could easily recognise wormed its way into the man’s eyes. Lovett glanced over to the initiates, “There should have been more. I will not make that mistake again.”

“I trust Ser Elyas will serve as a better assistant than Ser Rydal.” Not a trap he would fall into again. The man had been thoroughly vetted before his elevation to a Knight-Lieutenancy and training officer’s position was approved. A new policy for all promotions. Even now, Lovett had been instructed to supervise Elyas’ responsibilities with the recruits.

A flash of shame was quickly replaced by conviction, “You can be sure of it, Knight-Captain.”

~~~~

Any fatigue brought on by another sleepless night was quickly wiped away when an anxious messenger arrived at Cullen’s office door. He quickly catalogued the man’s bruised face and torn travel gear. The subtle stitched Sword of Mercy on his arms and over his heart marked him as a courier for the Templar Order. He half stood in alarm, “What happened?”

“I was sent from Cumberland bearing a message intended for you from the Wardens in Weisshaupt, Knight-Captain. I was passing through Kirkwall when I was assaulted. They stole my weapons, money.” The messenger paused and hung his head slightly, “And the message.”

“Maker’s breath. A messenger for the Templar Order was assaulted? What kind of place is this city?” Cullen asked incredulously. It was becoming a common question.

“I did my best, Ser, but there were five of them,” the messenger shrugged with a combination of anxiety and helplessness, “I’ve been employed to courier letters for the Order for seven years. No one ever steals letters bound for the Templars.”

“It’s hardly your fault.” Cullen kneaded his forehead, “I don’t suppose you have an idea as to the contents of the letter?” He held up a hand to forestall a response, “Don’t answer that, I trust that you’re a reliable messenger. Visit the infirmary to ensure your wounds are tended. The Order will provide a bonus to compensate you for your trouble. Thank you.”

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed in frustration. Countless messengers passing the letter from one Chantry or Templar Order waystation to another until it reached Weisshaupt. Six months of waiting for the response. Long enough that he would have forgotten if he hadn’t received a report a few months ago that Anders had returned from the Deep Roads.

He no longer believed in coincidence in Kirkwall. Anders had found himself some powerful friends. Writing again would only aggravate the Grey Wardens. Now there was no choice but to assign a permanent watch on the mage. Clearly his prayer to remove one headache from his life was to be met with a resounding refusal.

**Justinian 9:32 Dragon**

A solid wave of force lifted an Age’s worth of dust from the grimy floor of the alley. Cullen and the four templars with him barely had a chance to set their feet before the magical blast hit them. He felt the impact of countless small pieces of detritus on his armour as his robes whipped about his legs. A few sharp fragments of dust and stone left brighter scratches in the metal of his breastplate. Knight-Corporal Mettin lurched as a particularly large piece of debris clipped the side of his helm. The alleyway rang with the sound of steel as they drew their weapons, but before they could react further, a targeted blow of force followed up to slam Mettin into the floor with a clatter of metal. A templar standing a step too close stumbled as the edges of the blast caught him.

Standard attacks of a Circle-trained Force mage. If the apostate had kept some magical knowledge hidden whilst in the Gallows, he would have used it by now. As it was, the templars would be able to predict his every spell. This would not be difficult.

“Watch your spacing.” Cullen barked out the sharp rebuke. Training kicked in and the templars spread themselves out further to minimise the impact of a mage’s abilities on their ranks. Any chagrined expression from the templar caught in the fringes of the magical attack on Mettin was lost behind his helm. Mettin waved off the offer of a helping hand and struggled back to his feet. The lyrium helped him shrug off a magical blast that would have broken bones without its protection.

A heavy hum filled the air as the templars enforced a denial of magic. The apostate couldn’t have heard the lyrium song, but the shouted expletive from somewhere down amongst years’ worth of detritus told them that he felt it. Even through that magical damping, another weaker wave of force sent more debris flying towards them. This one was lit by flickers of electricity that sparked between particles of dust and danced over the metal of their armour.

They moved deeper into the alleyway with caution. The apostate had to be close now, somewhere in amongst the debris or hiding in one of the shadowed doorways. Cullen settled the shield on his arm and scanned potential hiding spots.

A templar was blasted into a wall with a sudden burst of force. There was a sharp snap as she impacted. She shouted in pain and clutched at an arm that suddenly seemed to bend the wrong way.

To overcome their denial of magic, the apostate must have lyrium of his own. Or he had called on the power in his own blood. There was no need for Cullen to warn the templars around him. Every templar sent to retrieve an apostate was resigned to the possibility of blood magic.

There was a sudden scuffling sound and a robed figure burst out from behind a pile of broken barrels. Cullen pounded off in pursuit, dodging a blur in the air as the mage threw another bolt of pure force behind him. An empty flask followed close behind. It smashed with a tinkle on Cullen’s raised shield.

He quickly caught up with the floundering apostate and tackled him into a wall. The man bounced back and tumbled onto the floor in a tangle of limbs. His spirit shield sparked and crackled where it had met the lyrium-suffused body of a templar, but a magical shield could do little good against the weighty physical impact of a man in plate armour. His staff clattered down beside him, and Cullen kicked it away to the other side of the alley.

The remaining three templars caught up and formed a loose ring around the apostate, blades lowered threateningly. Yet the feel of tendrils of mana still lay heavily in the air to templar senses. Even incapacitated beneath templar blades, the apostate tried to resist. The effort to cast through the denial enforced by four templars had to have taken more than a few lyrium potions. Theft. Another crime to add to the apostate’s list.

Cullen’s blade continued to pulse white as his templar abilities conducted down into the lyrium-infused steel. The blade hovered right above the man’s throat, drawing further sparks from the shield. It would be easy to end the threat of a rogue mage then and there. Safer. Then there would be nothing to fear.

Cullen mustered a burst of purging energy. The mage flinched as his connection to the fade was abruptly shattered. The taste of gathering mana snapped out and the sparking shield disappeared, leaving the man defenceless beneath the blades. For a moment, Cullen listened to the insistent scream of instinct that begged to permanently end the threat. The apostate’s angry eyes bored up through the shadowed slit of Cullen’s helm. But the anger quickly faded to fear as the moment stretched.

He withdrew his sword. Duty was clear, whatever instinct might demand. He was almost accustomed enough to the tremble in his hands that he was barely aware of it. Almost.

The apostate looked up to the blank steel gazes of the templars standing over him. “Void take you all,” he spat, wiping away a trickle of blood from his neck.

“You are the first to flee the Gallows in a year, apostate.” Cullen stated coldly. He hefted the phylactery in its protective box and then looked around the dingy Lowtown back alley, “But you hardly did a good job of it.”

“Yes, I escaped from your cursed prison,” he responded contemptuously as he shuffled back a pace and eased himself into a sitting position, “So kill me, if that makes your infernal Maker happy.”

“The Maker doesn’t delight in death, apostate.” The apostate shook his head in response to the icy rebuke.

Mettin tugged the apostate quickly to his feet, but he kept his sword in a comfortable grip.  He glanced over to Cullen, “What are your orders, Knight-Captain?” Cullen had not killed the apostate, but the Knight-Corporal was clearly ready for the command.

The apostate’s hands were clean. He hadn’t sought to use the exposed blood from the shallow cut on his arm and he didn’t even have a blade. If he was a blood mage, he was a stunningly inept one. The apostate couldn’t be trusted, but he wouldn’t be a further threat, Maker willing.

“He must be returned to the Gallows. The Knight-Commander and I will have questions for this apostate.”

“Maker’s Blood! I’ve lived in the Circle for twenty years. Do me the credit of calling me by my name.”

“You forfeited the right to any such courtesy when you fled, apostate.” Cullen snapped. He clamped a pair of heavy manacles over the apostate’s wrists. The mage winced as they tightly constricted his hands behind his back, but Cullen had vanishingly little sympathy for any Circle escapee.

Cullen strode over to the injured templar and crouched down to inspect her broken arm. Battlefield medicine was a long way from his speciality, but even he could tell that the break was severe. The mage healers in the Gallows would be required.

She winced as Cullen pulled the sash from his waist and fashioned a loose sling with hands that had finally steadied again. She tottered to her feet with an anxious apology that Cullen waved off.

“It was an unlucky strike. You are not responsible for the actions of an apostate.”

Cullen took a final look around the confines of the alley. Noon sunlight barely penetrated between the close packed buildings. Unlike the last escapee, this one hadn’t even made it out of the city. But there didn’t seem to be any reason for the apostate to have come here. Perhaps he had simply not known where to go once he escaped. Either that, or rumours of citizens assisting apostates in the so-called Mage Underground was true. _Maker, I hope no one is that senseless._ Harbouring escaped mages was a recipe for disaster.

A look down to the alley’s mouth showed a handful of curious civilians peering at the source of the commotion. They disappeared out of view when he looked over towards them.  Cullen shook his head. _It’s hard enough protecting people from magic without them wandering in front of a stray magical attack. You’d think they would have the sense to stay back_ , he thought despairingly.

The apostate kept up a stream of protests and expletives all the way back to the Gallows that drew equal parts scandalised and amused glances from the citizens they walked past.

A templar threatened a backhanded strike to silence him that Cullen caught before it could land. Cullen’s frosty glare sent the templar ducking his head with a terrified apology and sharp salute.

It was a relief to finally deliver the foul-mouthed apostate to a holding cell. He did a fine job of walking the line between simply swearing and blasphemy that no templar could ever ignore. That, if nothing else, was a true sign of a life spent near templars. Perhaps a day or two in the cells would calm him enough to be questioned. Cullen didn’t envy the templar guards stationed at the end of the hallway. His own pounding headache and increasing irritability was almost certainly a result of the apostate’s continuous complaints.

The following week, another mage escaped. That one was caught in Darktown as if he hoped the press of people would negate the usefulness of his phylactery. Three months later, another two escaped together. Their broken bodies were brought back to the Gallows. Blood mages who had resisted to their last breath. That very day, Meredith introduced a new policy in the Gallows that sent Orsino fuming from her office. A dramatic reduction in unsupervised free time for all mage inhabitants of the Gallows. Double watch at all times until the source of the escapes could be found. Cullen’s concern nearly matched Orsino’s. The Kirkwall Order was large, but even their numbers weren’t unlimited.

The following months were as quiet as they could be. A sharp increase in reprimands and complaints from both templars and mages showed that no one was happy with the new state of affairs. The resentful looks from the mages when he walked through the corridors of the Circle were hardly new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've planned for a bit of an interlude to connect Act 1 and 2. Gives me a chance to set the background tone for Act 2 without cramping what's already looking to be a rather hectic Act. There is a huge amount in Act 2 that relates directly or indirectly to the Templars, (even without the escalating tension that leads to the Mage-Templar war, which doesn't feature heavily in Hawke's story, but has to here) so keeping all that straight is going to be a bit of an adventure. Hopefully it all hangs together without getting too busy.


	16. Reminders of the Past

**Harvestmere 9:33 Dragon**

Cullen had to admit to himself that the last two years had let him settle more easily into the position. Not every issue had to be handled personally. Trust in his subordinates came slowly but with over four hundred templars under his command, it was necessary. In some cases, it was near impossible. Alrik was outwardly polite, but it was obvious he had never forgiven Cullen for the punishment handed down by Meredith. For the remainder, any doubts they might have held had long since faded to a healthy respect and deference. He thanked the Maker that old rumours were finally fading.

Settling in was both a gift and a curse, Cullen mused on more the one occasion. Every week brought more reports of blood magic in Kirkwall. The Order’s resources were stretched more thinly each day. Orsino’s claims that few mages fell prey to temptation rang more hollowly with every passing month. The reason for the constant friction between Meredith and Orsino was obvious every time Cullen returned from Kirkwall with armour tarnished by demon ichor or a maleficar’s blood.

The Gallows could hardly be called a comfortable posting, but he had resigned himself to the new overarching routine to his life. Pre-dawn in the chantry. Dawn training drills until he could match near every templar in the Gallows. He would not be left defenceless again. Reports, requisitions, complaints and reprimands to address or pass on to the Knight-Commander. Where possible he would claim command of squads sent to deal with yet another report of a maleficar or demon in the city. Despite the cold fear as he faced the memories dragged to the surface, he could not send the templars under his command into a danger he was unwilling to face himself. Behind all that, the tightly-controlled fear and tension whenever he faced a mage that left him unable to trust a single one. And so at night, more often than not, the nightmares.

Recent months seemed to be offering yet another concern to add to the towering list of issues that rested on his and the Knight-Commander’s shoulders. His escorts shivered in the chill breeze that whistled off the Waking Seas as they ascended the stairway to the Kirkwall Chantry. Gwinn waited at the head of the steps with a concerned frown as they approached. She saluted crisply and gestured them ahead through the open doors behind her.

“Knight-Captain, it is good to see you.”

They were led through the serene peace of the chantry - still quiet in the early hours of morning - to her cramped office adjoining the barracks assigned to the chantry garrison. She settled herself into her seat with a relieved sigh and then immediately leaned forwards to fidget restlessly with a quill.

Cullen watched her anxiety for a moment and then met Gwinn’s eyes with a frown, “I take it you have concerns.”

She dropped the quill back onto her desk, “The Qunari. I’m sure you’ve read my reports, but the people here in the chantry are becoming concerned. The Qunari been here for years. No rescue ship takes that long to arrive, even from Par Vollen.”

“The Qunari have made their disdain quite apparent. But as far as I am aware, they’ve barely left their compound. Is it truly such a concern?”

“All due respect, Knight-Captain, but you don't see how bad it is from the Gallows. More and more are converting to the Qun each month.” She hesitated a moment, “I myself am concerned at the presence of a trained military force in the city that has shown little tolerance for Andrastian ways. They have made no attempt to hide their status as warriors under the command of a Qunari general.”

“Do you expect there to be open conflict?” _Maker, I pray not._

The answer took longer to arrive than Cullen would have liked. “There is a growing collection of … zealots who are becoming more agitated. I fear what either side may do if provoked.” She sighed, “The Grand Cleric preaches tolerance, and that seems to be sufficient. For now.”

“If there is a credible threat, we must be prepared. The Order remains the strongest military force in Kirkwall by far. I have little faith that the City Guard would pose much of a threat against an attacking force of Qunari, especially with their mages.”

Gwinn nodded in agreement, “Their new Guard-Captain has enacted reforms and strengthened their numbers. But one Saarebas would cut right through them.”

Cullen massaged his temple against a rising headache, “Keep me updated. We’ll need any intelligence available on the size and composition of their forces.”

Little hope the Guard would share what information they held. They claimed that even templars handling magical crime was too much interference. Add in the Guard-Captain’s close association with Hawke, and that made for an expanding headache. Thank the Maker that particular nuisance had turned her attention to petitioning the Viscount instead of interfering in Order business.

On their return to the docks, Cullen covertly took a closer look at the Qunari compound as they passed. Sealed off and as quiet as always. It was impossible to tell how many warriors hid in there. Perhaps the Knight-Commander could appeal directly to the Viscount for intelligence on their forces.

Whatever the composition of the force, Qunari had a discipline that even exceeded that of the templars. His frown deepened, and he repeated his earlier prayer that conflict could be avoided.

He arrived back in his office to the sight of a single personal missive amongst the fresh pile of official reports. The battered envelope was of cheap make, so different to the high-quality paper provided for use by the Templar Order. _Ser Cullen Rutherford, Templar Order, Kirkwall_ was scrawled on the front. Every missive he received these days was addressed formally with his rank and position. To see a letter that acknowledged him as a member of the order without recognising his rank was odd, to say the least.

No one from Kinloch Hold had ever made any attempt to contact him. Not the few friends who had survived, and certainly not Knight-Commander Greagoir. Hardly surprising considering the state he had been in. Templars sent to ‘retirement’ were consciously cast from everyone’s mind. They had all been glad to see him gone. No one wanted a living reminder like Cullen around. The fact that he was successful, despite what they expected, hardly seemed to have made a difference.

A sharp tug of a knife blade separated the plain wax seal from the envelope and he unfolded a sheet of thin paper. The contents were written in a spidery scrawl that suggested someone informally taught, rather than the neat penmanship hammered into those with a chantry education. _My own handwriting looked like that onc-_

With a sudden shock, he realised he recognised the handwriting. He hadn’t seen it for more than two years, but there was no mistaking it. Mia.

His heart sank. His family had probably thought he was dead. He almost believed it better that she continued that way. Would they even recognise the man he was now? He was second-in-command at what was widely known as the strictest Circle in the Free Marches. A long way from the boy they had said goodbye to nearly ten years ago when he left for the Denerim chantry. That boy had been left behind in the bloodied halls of Kinloch Hold.

Reluctantly, he read through the letter’s contents.  

> _Cullen,_
> 
> _You’re not dead. That’s something you might have told me._
> 
> _Things were not so easy for us in Ferelden. The Blight came. It forced us out of Honnleath and we fled to the relative safety of South Reach. Mother and Father didn’t make it. I wish with all my heart you could have been there with us, but Mother and Father would have wished you safe. All of us were glad you were safe in the Circle._
> 
> _When we finally arrived in South Reach, we heard there had been some form of trouble at the Circle Tower. We feared we had lost you too, without even a chance to say goodbye. The Templars refused to tell us if you had been transferred or were simply dead, but we heard terrible rumours. I have spent the last two years using what resources I could gather trying to find out if you were even alive. I even travelled all the way to the Circle Tower itself_ – _the only time I’ve left home outside of fleeing the Blight_ – _and was turned away at the docks. But the brother I remember would never have given up on us, and I could not give up on you. I finally managed to track you to Greenfell and then to the Free Marches, of all places._
> 
> _I am glad you’re still alive._
> 
> _You were no doubt aware where_ we _were – or could have been – as the Order has more resources than three displaced Fereldans looking for their stupid brother. Be safe. I will write again soon._
> 
> _Your faithful sister,_
> 
> _Mia_

He hadn’t seen his parents since he left for Templar training, and now they were dead in the Blight. That thought didn’t hurt as much as it should have. The pain of that realisation joined the other scars that ached dully on his heart.

The expense it must have been for Mia to track him down when they had so little, especially after fleeing the Blight. He didn’t deserve that. His hand clenched and the thin paper crumpled in his hand. With a deep breath, he loosened his grip and smoothed the paper back out on his desk.

It sat there, tucked into a corner of his desk, for weeks. He could almost imagine Mia’s eyes glaring at him accusingly every time he sat down to read another report, every time he returned from errands in the Circle or the city, every time he set his well-used sword back into its stand. More times than he could count, he felt the temptation to get rid of the letter. Surely it would be better to let Mia and his siblings keep the happy memories of the brother they had once had. And each time, he stopped his hand just before it moved to crumple up the battered letter.

**Haring 9:33 Dragon**

Ambris accosted him barely seconds after he returned to his office from a meeting with the Knight-Commander and the Senior Enchanters. She slapped a piece of paper down in front of him with an angry huff. In Cullen's months under her command and two years as her superior, not once had she shown anything more than mild exasperation. Cullen looked down from her furious face to the page of orders and then back again.

"Is this supposed to mean something to me, Knight-Lieutenant Ambris?" he questioned sharply. His perpetual fatigue weighed particularly heavily right now. Familiar lingering discomfort after duties in the Circle left him in no mood for borderline insubordination, even from someone as close to a friend as he had in the Gallows.

"I've been reassigned to recruit training, Knight-Captain. I have plenty of respect for what Lovett and Elyas do, but it’s not my calling. I've served well as a Knight-Lieutenant in the Circle itself for ten years, and now Karras of all people is replacing me?" She raised her hands in sheer bewilderment, "Why?"

Cullen didn’t need to look closer at the signature on the orders to know the source. "These come directly from the Knight-Commander. She will have her reasons."

"Oh, I’m sure she does," she muttered darkly. "Far be it from me to criticise a fellow Knight-Lieutenant, but you know as well as I that Karras is not well suited to Circle duty, Ser. He works best when mages are at the other end of a sword, not where he has to deal with them every day."

“You know better than to question your Knight-Commander, Ser Ambris. I cannot revoke the orders. You would have to bring the complaint directly to her."

Internally, Cullen knew exactly why Ambris had been reassigned. Meredith was increasingly concerned that a soft touch in the Gallows was the source of the severe rise in escapes over the past year. Past experience meant that Cullen tended to agree, even if he would not have called Ambris soft. Only time would tell if Meredith’s suspicions were correct.

But Ambris was right on every count. Karras would not be a welcome sight in the Circle. He wasn’t sure yet whether that change would help or hinder a tightening of the gaps in Circle security. Meanwhile, Cullen was left to deal with the consequences from both the Templar and Circle ends.

Ambris looked doubtful, “It’s near impossible to get a meeting with the Knight-Commander anymore unless you happen to have ‘Knight-Captain’ in front of your name or are one of a lucky few. I know you always have an open door. That’s why I came to you, Ser.” She scrubbed her face. Suddenly she looked as tired as Cullen felt. Her armour and robes were as immaculate as always, but dark shadows under her eyes showed just how overworked every templar in the Gallows was these days. “If I could at least be assigned to something more suited to my skillset?”

“I’ll see what I can do, Ser Ambris. Meanwhile, Ser Lovett and Ser Elyas will appreciate your support. You have plenty of Circle experience that would be invaluable to recruits.”

A rise in blood mage and demon attacks in Kirkwall had spurred an increase in the number of recruits. In Ferelden, most recruits had been younger sons and daughters dedicated to the chantry or chantry orphans. Here, volunteers seemed to be the norm rather than the exception. Some were too old to be accepted, but the training cohorts were thriving, even after screening. People seemed to final recall why the Order had been created. If only that support had not been matched by an equal increase in the number of voices raised against the Order.

Ambris saluted resignedly, “I suppose that’s all I can ask, Ser. I’ll speak to Lovett and see what is required from me.”

**Wintermarch 9:34 Dragon**

Another battered letter turned up on Cullen’s desk a few months after the first, when the mild winter chill had him longing for a true Fereldan winter. Cullen had almost hoped she would forget, or assume a lack of response meant the letter had never found him. He reluctantly unsealed the envelope nonetheless. 

>   _Cullen,_
> 
> _I’d like to think this will arrive on First Day. Remember that? When people remember that family exists? Regardless, I hope this letter finds you well. You can’t ignore me now that I’ve finally found you. I’ll keep writing either way._

The rest of the letter was filled with all the inane news she had always used to send. Updates on the new life she was making in South Reach. The challenges of supporting his younger brother and sister. Even Rosalie was almost an adult now. He couldn’t connect the images up with hazy ten-year old memories of when he had seen them last. The letter ended with a familiar stern tone that his older sister had never lost. 

> _At this point, I don’t expect a response. But know that we still care for you, whatever happened in the Circle Tower._
> 
> _Your Loving Sister,_
> 
> _Mia_

Cullen set the letter on top of the first and leaned back in his chair. His eyes widened in startled surprise as he found himself thumbing the coin in his pocket. After Kinloch Hold he had abandoned that unconscious movement, even as habit even more ingrained than his daily lyrium meant it always found its way into his robes.

 _Faith sustains you, recruits. Nothing more_. _From the day you join, the Order is your only family, service to the Maker your only concern._ It had been his only rebellion to keep that token, given to him by his brother on the day he left Honnleath.

With all the chaos in Kirkwall, it was comforting to hear of life outside the walls of the Gallows. A life he had sworn to protect from all the danger he had faced and would continue to face.

A quill and crisp sheet of paper found its way into his hand without him truly realising. 

> _Mia,_
> 
> _I was glad to hear you found safety from the Blight and deeply sorry to hear of Mother and Father’s deaths. May they find peace at the Maker’s side._
> 
> _Perhaps it might have been better had you not found me, as I fear I have little news to comfort you. Do not ask me to share the tale of the Circle Tower. I would not subject anyone to that._
> 
> _For the past two years I have served as Knight-Captain in the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. Kirkwall is not an easy city to safeguard, but that has made the importance of the Templar Order’s calling all the more apparent to me. I will do anything in my power to uphold my vows._
> 
> _I am glad that South Reach is becoming as much of a home to you all as Honnleath was. I pray it remains so._
> 
> _Maker preserve you,_
> 
> _Cullen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first letter from his sister is actually partially canon. At least it's one vaguely bright note when we all know that Cullen's/the Order's story is going to start taking a pretty major downwards turn from Act 2 onwards.
> 
> I'm certainly not going to disagree with other fics that imply that 'Knight-Captain Cullen' was a relatively scary name in Kirkwall. Whatever internal reasons Cullen has for his actions, he wouldn't have been the friendly face that my previous Knight-Captain was. To the recruits, he's bound to be terrifying, not only for being a high-ranking officer but for the events of Enemies Among Us. To the mages, he's Meredith's right-hand man, so he wouldn't have been trusted and might have been seen as almost as bad. Plus, his distrust and cold attitude to them would be blatantly obvious. To the templars, he's rather severe. He wouldn't have been capable of forming many attachments on arriving, especially after a rapid promotion, and even now takes his duties very seriously. They trust him to look out for them, but they're not friends.


	17. The Underground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Busy week for me last week, so it took me a while to get this one out.

**Justinian 9:34 Dragon**

A pounding at his door drew Cullen lurching from a restless and shallow sleep. In his half-awake state, the noise almost merged with the dregs of the latest in a set of fresh nightmares.

“Knight-Captain, Ser!”

The frantic voice blended into the rest of the screams and accusations and pleas that stalked his foggy mind.

“Intruders have broken into the Circle!”

The words broke through and sent Cullen shooting out of his bed to throw open the door. A breathless templar shifted anxiously from one foot to another as he split his gaze between his Knight-Captain and the darkened corridor.

“Thank the Maker.”  The relief in the man’s voice as the door opened was crystal clear. His face was vaguely familiar. He was not someone who tended to overreact. A trickle of adrenaline ratcheted Cullen’s heartrate up a step. “Knight-Lieutenant Karellian sent me to fetch you as quickly as possible, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen nodded sharply and spared a second to flick a glance down the corridor to the Knight-Commander’s quarters before darting back into his own.

“Where is the Knight-Commander?” he called back out to the anxious templar.

“Not in her quarters, Ser.”

Cullen briefly regretted the absence of squires as he skipped donning his robes to strap on the bare minimum of armour as quickly as possible over his nightclothes. There was no time to measure or mix a proper dose of lyrium. A full vial scorched its way down his throat and filled him with its simmering energy. He hurried out of the door, still buckling the remaining loose straps.

Cullen grilled the templar as they pounded down towards Templar Hall’s entrance into the Circle. An unknown number of assailants had somehow made their way unnoticed all the way up to the floor containing the mages’ quarters as if they had known every patrol route. Knight-Lieutenant Karellian was ordering his men to lock down the Gallows and cut off any avenues of escape.

By the time they reached the stairwell to the first of the mages’ floors in the Circle, they had been joined by Karellian and a full squad of templars. A black grimace twisted the older templar’s features as they raced up the final set of stairs.

There was no chance that the assailants would miss the rattle of the sprinting templars as they passed corridor after corridor of sealed doors. They turned a final corner just in time to see a templar fall next to another prone body, blood staining his armour.

The masked assailant glanced up from the collapsing templar. He stiffened in alarm as he spotted the rapidly approaching squad. A retreating Circle mage called out to him with a hint of panic in her voice. “We have to leave!” He nodded quickly and dragged her into a run alongside him. She clutched her staff and a small bag closely to her chest as she kept pace behind the leader. The remaining assailants formed a protective screen and were quickly obscured behind a cloud of choking smoke that filled the air with an acrid stench.

Cullen growled in frustration. Each of the raiders had been armed and armoured in similar nondescript gear. Even without the concealing cloud, it was impossible to tell who had cast the spell. Still, even if they couldn’t clear the smoke, they could try and prevent further spells from being cast.

“Purvis. Indray. Find and supress the apostate!” He snapped out the orders. “The rest of you. Shields up. Form on me.”

They jogged forwards into the smoke, shields raised defensively in front of them. Cullen felt more than saw the swing of a greatsword towards his head. The blade cut a path towards him through the cloud, trailing loose strands of smoke. He raised his shield and the impact rang through the metal, numbing his arm for a moment. He took advantage of the opening left by the wild swing and slashed a deep cut across the man’s abdomen. The razor-sharp steel cut through the cheap leather of his assailant’s gear and the man slid off the blade to collapse in on the floor.

Another step forwards and the smoke cloud thinned enough for him to be able to make out the next opponent. She moved forward more cautiously, her longsword held protectively in a two-handed grip in front of her. She swung her sword towards his exposed neck that he let slide off his shield. Another strike at his legs skimmed harmlessly past as he took a short step out of the blade’s path.

His assailant skipped a few steps back to keep out of Cullen’s reach. All around him, there were sharp barks of exertion and pain as the templars beside him advanced against the intruders.

In likely desperation, the mage in the group made the mistake of revealing himself and attempted to cast a spell. A man at the back lifted his staff - disguised as a halberd - but whatever spell he had meant to cast failed uselessly in the smoke-filled air. The movements were the loose ones of a mage who had never been formally trained in a Circle, but the intent was obvious. The confusion as he found himself cut off from the fade by the templars was even clearer.

Indray reacted instantly, calling down a smite that collapsed the unprepared mage and sent his weapon spinning out of his hand. The weapon clipped Cullen’s opponent in the back and, in that moment of distraction, he finished her with a quick sweep of his sword that laid open her throat. The remainder of the squad marched through the gaps, stepping over the scattered bodies to efficiently cut down the remaining resistance.

The fleeing form of the intruders’ leader and the Circle mage were just visible at the end of the corridor. Cullen barked a quick order for half the squad to remain on guard whilst he and the remainder raced down the corridor in pursuit. There was nowhere left to run with the stairwells sealed, and the fleeing mage slid to a sudden halt as they hit a dead-end corridor. The final raider turned back and spat at the approaching templars.

“Void take you all. We’ll stand up for the rights of mages, even if you don’t.”

He raced towards them brandishing his daggers but was drawn to a sudden stop by a blade through the chest.

The mage backed a few steps away. Her glances darted between the templars in front of her and she clutched her bag closer to her chest as an ineffectual shield.

Cullen lifted his sword into a ready stance as the mage’s hand tightened around her staff in a white-knuckled grip. The blade flickered with the restrained purging energy. Distantly, through the cold focus of battle, he was grateful that the sword held steady as he faced off against a hostile mage. “Drop your weapon.” He ordered curtly. “Now.”

There was a tense moment of silence as his dispassionate eyes met her hostile ones. Finally, any fire faded from her stare and her shoulders slumped. Whether she had realised the futility of trying to cast a spell against a templar or had given up on the idea of a life on the run, she let the staff slip from her hand.

“Mages that attempt to flee the Circle are regarded as apostates and possible maleficarum.” He recited emotionlessly, sword still held cautiously at the ready.

“Maker have mercy.” The whispered words hadn’t been meant to be heard, but they echoed more than they should have in the quiet corridor.

Whatever he might fear from the mage and whatever the mage might believe, he was no executioner. He sheathed his sword and gestured to a pair of templars behind him. “Take her down to the holding cells to await an assessment and trial.”

The tension with which Cullen had held himself dissipated as the mage was escorted away. He cursed in a quiet undertone as he strode back to the scattered bodies. Every one of the assailants was dead. They had thrown their lives away for nothing. And now there was no one to explain how in the Maker’s name they had managed to reach this far into the Gallows.

With the fading of adrenaline, it was all too easy to remember how much he hated the enclosed confines of the Circle. Dead bodies in the corridors of the Circle ran a little too close to unpleasant memories that he shoved back into the recesses of his mind with weary ease.

Karellian stepped over one of the bodies towards Cullen. “Ser. One of the guards is still alive. The healers might be able to save him yet.”

“You don’t need my permission,” Cullen snapped irritably, “Get him to the healers immediately.” He waited a moment to watch the templar get hauled to his feet and carried away before he glared back at Karellian, “This happened on your watch, Karellian. Explain to me how this travesty,” he waved an expressive hand towards the chaos in the corridor, “is even possible.”

Karellian opened and closed his mouth a few times before shaking his head. Confusion and dismay wormed its way into the man’s response. “Maker knows how they could have got past so many patrols, Knight-Captain. Please accept my sincerest apologies for this failure.” His eyes narrowed as he recovered his typical composure, “But you can be sure I will be closely questioning my men.”

He held himself to attention until Cullen nodded in acknowledgement. “We must all evaluate how this gross breach in security could be possible.”

With the commotion of a running battle gone, a few cautious heads poked out of doors up and down the corridor. Those heads paused briefly at the sight of Cullen in only breastplate, vambraces, and boots over his nightclothes before landing on the scattered bodies and jerking quickly back out of sight.

Now that it was clear that the blame would not fall entirely on his head, Karellian unstiffened slightly. He scowled at the sight of the curious mages. “Perhaps we should start locking doors at night as well as maintaining curfew.”

Cullen considered the suggestion for a fraction of a second. It was an easy thought to have given what the Gallows had once been. “The Gallows isn’t a prison any longer, and a mage could blow the door right off its hinges, regardless of whether it’s locked or not. But you’re welcome to make the suggestion to the Knight-Commander nonetheless.”

The thudding of booted feet from down the corridor heralded the arrival of another squad headed by one of Karellian’s Knights-Corporal. Distantly, a bell pealed. Three hours past midnight. He’d barely slept an hour, but there was no hope of any more rest tonight.

“We need to sweep the entire Circle. Check to make sure no more intruders are hidden anywhere.” He flicked his gaze to the partially-open doors. Curious mages listening to the conversations. “Check every room. I don’t care if they’re asleep or awake. We caught one potential escapee. There may have been others.” He cast a final glance to the dead templar and intruders.  “And get one of the chantry Sisters to handle the bodies appropriately.”

“Right away, Ser,” Karellian said with a salute before turning to bellow orders at the gathered templars. If any mages on the corridor were still asleep, they wouldn’t be for much longer.

An hour later and the Circle was busier even than it would have been in the middle of the day. Alrik, also responsible for night-shift watch over the Circle, appeared at the head of his own squads to assist in the sweep. The seriousness of the incident meant it was a rare time when their professional interactions didn’t come laden with an undertone of mutual dislike.

Cullen breathed an internal sigh of relief as roll-call in the apprentice dormitories came back complete. Half-trained and unharrowed mages escaping the Gallows would have been an even greater worry than an escaped harrowed mage. The apprentices were tired and confused at being woken and led to their common areas in the middle of the night, but none were missing. The baffled templars assigned to their floor were eager to prove their vigilance as a half-squad reinforced them to stand guard over the milling apprentices.

By the time they cleared the Senior mages’ quarters, Cullen’s head had begun to ache uncomfortably with the strain of holding a denial of magic for so long. Even years of training in mental focus and a full dose of lyrium could only go so far. The irate and indignant responses of the mages they woke slightly outweighed the cooperative ones, and it certainly wasn’t helping.

There were two missing mages and one missing Senior Enchanter. It was unclear whether they had taken advantage of the chaos or escaped with another group of intruders. The escaped Senior Enchanter stung the most. Cullen spent less time in close proximity to the mages than he had as a Knight-Corporal in the Circle, but he and Meredith attended regular meetings with the Senior Enchanters. The thought that one could have been planning to escape right under their noses was galling.

Cullen led a final squad to the Orsino’s quarters himself. The First Enchanter warranted more respect than a Knight-Templar knocking at his door. The remainder completed a sweep of the final inhabited floor and maintained the lockdown as one portcullis after another sealed off each floor of the Circle.

Orsino answered the sharp knock at his door with enough speed that Cullen strongly suspected that he slept as shallowly as Cullen himself did. The slight pained wince as Orsino opened the door suggested that the denial humming through the air was making itself known to the mage. He swept a quick concerned glance over Cullen and the templars waiting behind him.

“So, has Meredith finally decided to get rid of me?” Orsino asked with folded arms and a voice dripping in disgust.

“I imagine she’d be here herself if that was the case,” Cullen responded drily. He was a little too tired to maintain as much diplomacy as was required from him. “Intruders raided the Circle earlier, First Enchanter. I would greatly appreciate if you would allow me to check your quarters.”

Orsino expression wavered between shock and irritation, “Your lack of trust in me astounds me every time. But raiders in the Gallows? I find that hard to believe.”

“As do I,” Cullen sighed tiredly as he kneaded his forehead to relieve a pounding headache, “But please, it has been a long night. If I could check your quarters?”

Orsino’s scowl deepened but he stepped back with a flourish. “By all means. A word of warning for you, Knight-Captain. I’ve hidden an entire mercenary army in my wardrobe.”

Orsino’s chambers were perhaps slightly bigger than Cullen’s. The converted cells of the Gallows had been intended for multiple inmates, and now housed only individual mages. Despite the larger size, the room seemed more cramped with touches of personal taste that wouldn’t be found in a templar’s austere quarters or the barracks. There wasn’t much room for anyone to hide in amongst the crowded bookshelves or the narrow desk. Certainly no one would be concealed behind the patterned tapestries on the walls or underneath the bed. He took a cursory glance in the wardrobe before nodding his thanks.

“Thank you for your cooperation, First Enchanter.” He said formally. He had half expected the mage to raise more of a fuss. “A templar will be stationed outside your door until the lockdown is lifted. If you have any requirements, let him know.”

“Wait, Ser Cullen,” Orsino called out as Cullen turned wearily to leave. The surprise of Orsino referring to him by name turned him back to face the worried frown that had replaced the mage’s scowl. The First Enchanter paused for a moment as if unsure what he wanted to say. A flash of sympathy that was becoming increasingly rare crossed his face as he met Cullen’s eyes. “Most of the mages here just want to live in peace. They have nothing to do with whatever you think happened tonight. You know your duty, Knight-Captain. Meredith’s reactions have become increasingly … overblown of late. I cannot make her see reason, but perhaps you can.”

Cullen hesitated before giving the First Enchanter a light salute, “I will do what I must. But this is a tremendous breach in security. More restrictions are inevitable.”

Cullen exhaled as the First Enchanter closed his door and he was finally able to release his concentration. The lyrium faded to its usual background hum, although the dull headache continued to pulse gently with his heartbeat. Three missing. _Thank the Maker it was only three._

It was impossible to see outside in the windowless corridors of the Gallows, but the distant sound of bells signalled that dawn was breaking. By the time Cullen returned to the ground floor of the Circle, Meredith had arrived, as crisply attired as always. She stood in quiet discussion with Alrik and Karellian where they gathered reports from the final templars returning from their sweeps.

The pair saluted and walked off as Cullen approached. Meredith spared an amused glance for Cullen’s unconventional outfit before it was replaced with an icy glare. “I had not given much credit to the reported rumours of a ‘mage underground’ before now.” Her disgust at the idea was crystal clear. “But a group of apostates should not have the resources to enter the heart of the Gallows itself!”

“No, they should not.” Cullen responded flatly. “I pray this was an anomalous event, but I fear this group is more of a threat than either of us anticipated.” He paused and watched the bustle of templars marshalling in the entrance hall with a coldly calculating stare that matched Meredith’s. Finally, he lowered his voice and continued, “Regardless of whether there is such an organisation, knowingly or otherwise, someone provided these intruders with enough information to bypass patrols and enter the heart of the Gallows.”

It hardly seemed possible, but Meredith’s gaze became even icier. “There are traitors in the Gallows.”

~~~~

The meeting room buzzed with the muted sound of conversation between the gathered Knights-Lieutenant. The loose discipline was hardly a surprise. An emergency gathering had been called for the senior officers, and rumour now skimmed between them all as they tried to guess what decisions Meredith would make. Karras and Alrik muttered to each other in a corner while Rost and Karellian claimed a space nearby. As Knights-Lieutenant responsible for supervising duties in the Circle itself, they commanded close to half of the Gallows’ complement of templars and had the most reason to be concerned. The two Knights-Lieutenant assigned to Templar Hall and the Gallows’ external security looked almost as strained as they whispered quietly.

Lovett, Elyas, and Ambris had the least to worry about, with little association with Circle security. But Ambris look frustrated by her powerlessness to be a part of Circle decisions any longer.

The final three Knights-Lieutenant spent much of their time off the Gallows island and by all rights might have had reason to feel relaxed. But even their comfortable smiles seemed strained. Orsino was partially right, much as Cullen wanted to avoid acknowledging that fact. A templar had as much reason to fear Meredith’s response as a mage. Little surprise that they were more likely these days to report any slips in performance to him rather than Meredith.

In all, it made for an unpleasantly crowded and tense room. Meredith’s delay in arriving didn’t help matters. Cullen stepped out and glanced down the corridor towards her office. She was usually incredibly punctual.

He paced down the corridor and stopped in front of her door. He paused with his hand poised to knock. He could have sworn he had heard her speaking. No more voices filtered through the door and so he shook his head in bemusement and knocked sharply. It took a moment – long enough that he was half convinced that she wasn’t in – before the lock clicked and the door opened.

“My apologies, Cullen. I had an urgent matter to address.”

Cullen caught a glance of the office as she stepped out and closed the door behind her. Clearly there was no one in there with her. The sound of voices must have been from the courtyard outside.

The meeting room quieted instantly, and the Knights-Lieutenant drew themselves to attention as Meredith entered. Even her closest allies didn’t want to be caught breaking meeting decorum with her current mood.

“Intruders in the heart of the Circle itself.” She began without any preamble. “I need not remind any of you of the gravity of this matter. We must find the culprits and we must find out how this ever could have been allowed to happen.”

Meredith inspected each one of the neatly arrayed Knights-Lieutenant with a frown. To a templar, every one of them kept their gazes level with the top of her head, avoiding catching her attention.

“Much as it pains me to admit this,” she growled, “Knight-Captain Cullen and I agree that they could not have infiltrated so far through our security without assistance.”

There were nervous throat clearings from some and quickly suppressed scowls from others. No one liked the implication that there might be conspirators within the Order.

“Even ignoring the fact that they somehow avoided multiple levels of patrols in the Circle itself,” continued Cullen, “At least ten intruders passed completely undetected from the docks, through the main gate and then the Circle’s main entrance.” He refused to even consider that they might have snuck right under their noses to infiltrate via Templar Hall’s entrance into the Circle. “Both sealed for the night. And then out again. Ser Parrist.” Cullen singled out the templar sharply. The man stiffened. He hadn’t expected to be the first called out. “Would you care to explain how that could be possible?”

He winced under Meredith and Cullen’s combined scrutiny. “If I might make a suggestion, Knight-Commander, Knight-Captain. It is possible that they didn’t approach from the bay at all. There is a complex network of tunnels under the Gallows that reaches below sea level, some of which lead directly into the Circle. Smugglers may conceivably have knocked through from the Darktown tunnels to give them a hidden route into the Gallows.” He finished quickly, “Purely speculation, of course.”

Cullen exchanged a quick glance with Meredith. He had known that there were subterranean tunnels from Kirkwall’s history as a mining town. But hadn’t realised that they were so extensive. Judging by the surreptitious grimaces from some of the gathered Knights-Lieutenant, they were less than happy that Parrist had shared the information. He carefully marked those who had reacted with irritation rather than surprise.

“I suppose a Knight-Lieutenant responsible for Gallows external security would be knowledgeable of underground passageways in the Circle?” Meredith questioned sarcastically. There was a moment of hush as Meredith watched the uncomfortable templar. If she suspected he knew more, she kept it to herself for the moment. The tension broke as she continued. “If there was even a hint that this was the main smuggling route into the Gallows, you should have informed me sooner. No one else seems to have made any headway with eliminating sources of contraband.”

“I paid little attention to the stories until now, Knight-Commander. The barracks are full of gossip,” he responded tightly.

“It seems you have earned yourself a reprieve, Knight-Lieutenant Parrist. Knight-Lieutenant Forthrin, I want any scouts you have available to begin mapping these passages immediately. Report directly to Knight-Captain Cullen. We need to know how many holes there are in our security.”

The man nodded, although he would be hard pressed to find the men given that many of his scouts were almost permanently outside Kirkwall these days.

Meredith turned to the stiff Circle Knights-Lieutenant. “Knights-Lieutenant Karras, Alrik, Rost and Karellian. I was tempted to restrict all templars to the Gallows indefinitely, but Knight-Captain Cullen convinced me otherwise. And so, effective immediately, all patrol routes and assignments must be changed weekly. Templars will be provided with their patrol routes no more than one day in advance of assignment. I expect you to question every one of the men under your command to identify our leak.”

There was a subtle loosening of tension from the four Knights-Lieutenant. The order was an increase in their workload, of course, but at least weekly questioning was already a part of their duties. Permanent restriction to the Gallows would have caused a minor revolt.

It had been a difficult decision to talk Meredith out of making. Instead, she had privately decided to speak to the proprietor of the Blooming Rose to shut down any business with templars. The leak might not even be intentional, and they hardly had the best history with the establishment. Cullen was secretly grateful she had chosen to address that particular possibility herself.

Cullen glanced over to Karellian, “Knight-Lieutenant Karellian raised the suggestion of locking all doors in the Circle overnight. I have instead recommended that we seal all portcullises between floors during curfew.” Stairwells were already guarded, but higher security wouldn’t go to waste. “Mages caught breaking curfew will now be subject to confinement in the holding cells. No exceptions unless escorted by a Knight-Lieutenant, myself, or the Knight-Commander.”

This was as much as he was willing to do in recognition of Orsino’s plea. The First Enchanter couldn’t expect that security would ever remain the same after such an incursion.

“One final order of business,” Meredith pinned Knights-Lieutenant Conrad and Halle with a glare, “Do not believe you have escaped a reprimand. Clearly this Mage Underground is more serious than you would have had us believe. I expect you to pass on even the vaguest back alley rumour your men stumble across in Kirkwall from now onwards.” She swept a final cold look across them all, “We have work to do. Good day.”

She marched out before the room’s occupants had a chance to finish crisp salutes. Cullen waited behind as the Knights-Lieutenant quickly filed out. No one wanted to be caught idling after that particular meeting. Ambris lagged behind Lovett and Elyas to pause in front of Cullen.

“Much as I would appreciate the assistance, there’s nothing you can do, Ser Ambris.” Cullen commented with a flicker of amusement before she had a chance to begin the inevitable request.

She quirked a slight grin in response, “It’s worth asking. In this situation, you need all the help you can get. The recruits don’t keep me too busy.” She saluted. “You know where to find me, Knight-Captain.”

The room had almost emptied, but Cullen frowned warily as he spotted Alrik waiting patiently at the back of the room. Alrik flicked his eyes briefly to the door before walking up to Cullen. He saluted with enough precision that it was almost sarcastic. “Knight-Captain. I have a proposal that I believe could solve all our problems. If I could discuss it with you and the Knight-Commander? She left too quickly for me to suggest a meeting myself.”

“The Knight-Commander is a very busy woman, Ser Alrik. I hope you don’t plan on wasting her time.”

Alrik’s smile was smugly satisfied. “The Knight-Commander and I usually see eye-to-eye. I have no doubt she will see the value in what I have to say, Ser.”

“Fine,” Cullen replied shortly, “I will see if she can spare the time.”

Meredith’s office was quiet this time when Cullen approached, Alrik a few paces behind him. Her sharp voice commanded them to enter seconds after the knock.

She looked up from the report on her desk and set down her quill. “Cullen.” Her eyes narrowed, “And Ser Alrik. I trust you haven’t forgotten our last conversation?”

Alrik’s posture tightened but his reply held none of the anger he must have felt. “Of course not, Knight-Commander. I have a proposal I was hoping you and the Knight-Captain might consider.”

Meredith gestured to the chairs in front of her desk, “Please, have a seat.”

Alrik settled himself in the chair and leaned forwards with his elbows on the desk. “None of us can fail to see how dramatically the number of mages in the Gallows has increased. They do not give us the proper level of respect. They constantly rebel against the Maker’s will. And every day brings the risk that one might become an abomination or make use of forbidden magics.”

He leaned back and split an assured look between Meredith and Cullen, “We have a simple answer right in front of us. Subject all mages to the Rite of Tranquility when they reach the age of majority and they may retain their usefulness without any rebellion. All the dangers of magic are eliminated in one fell swoop.” He lightly slapped his palm against the desk to emphasis his comment. He smiled confidently, “It is a simple solution to a problem that has become more complex than it should. I have already taken the liberty of sending the proposal to the Divine, but the decision is of course yours, Knight-Commander.”

Cullen couldn’t help but look at Alrik sceptically. Surely Meredith wouldn’t even consider such a ridiculous proposal. This was a long way from the right means to gain peace of mind. The fact that Alrik was even willing to propose it seemed to suggest that he had completely forgotten what his duty was as a templar.

To Cullen’s surprise, Meredith seemed to seriously consider the proposal for a moment. Finally, she shook her head slowly. “Your suggestion is interesting, but ultimately flawed, Ser Alrik. The Harrowing has served as sufficient protection for centuries. Who are we to claim we know better than the very founders of the Templar Order and the Circles of Magi? Our duty is as guardians, watchers and protectors. I grant you that the situation has worsened in Kirkwall, but it is well within our abilities to continue to serve. Properly _._ I would certainly not indiscriminately apply the Rite for no other reason than that magic exists.”

Alrik spluttered, speechless for a rare moment. “Knight-Commander. This would be a solution to all our problems. No more blood magic. No more demons. No more rebellion or mages turning apostate. Surely you can see the value of the suggestion.” Much to Cullen’s surprise, Alrik turned to him, “Knight-Captain, whatever I may have insinuated about you in the past, I know you see how this may benefit all involved.”

“What I see, Ser Alrik, is a templar who is looking for an easy way to get out of performing their duties to the best of their ability.” He replied with distaste, “The Templar Order has a duty of protection. Tranquility is a mercy of last resort for mages who are entirely unwilling or unable to control their powers. It is _not_ an option as a Circle-wide measure simply because our duties have become more difficult.”

“Please,” Alrik scoffed, “You know as much as I that some mages deserve the Rite, regardless of whether or not they have been Harrowed.”

“Deserve is not an appropriate description.” Cullen responded sharply, “Yes, where a mage poses a credible threat of demonic summoning or blood magic and cannot be safely contained, they may be subjected to the Rite rather than executed. That is as wide an application of the Rite as is permitted under Chantry law.”

Meredith didn’t add anything further, but Cullen avoided glancing her way. From her perspective, the Rite was justified for mundane as well as magical threats. That strayed closer to stretching the letter of the law for the Rite of Tranquility as Cullen saw it then he was willing to contemplate.

Alrik leaned forward again. “If the greatest barrier is Chantry law, then I eagerly await the Divine’s response. Perhaps she might see things differently.”

“By all means, Alrik,” Meredith smiled deceptively calmly, “Wait for her response. But she is new to her position. I spoke to her myself at her enthronement not four months ago. I imagine her decision will reflect mine.” She met Alrik’s gaze with a cold one of her own, “You have been a loyal subordinate for many years. I have often valued your input in the past. I would hate to think that defiance was becoming a habit of yours.”

Alrik broke eye contact to scan Cullen’s impassive face. A flicker of disgust curled his lip and disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “I see times have indeed changed. I pray this is not the same lenient Fereldan attitude that led to tragedy.”

A spurt of cold anger tensed Cullen’s muscles. The suggestion that he might be doing anything less than his utmost to protect the Circle was deeply offensive. It took every ounce of hard-earned experience to keep the anger off his face apart from a withering stare and a lowering of his brows. Alrik’s eyes narrowed as the accusation failed to provoke a response.

“That will be all, Knight-Lieutenant Alrik.” The subtle stress on the title was a gentle reminder from Meredith that his hold on the rank was looser than it might once have been.

He rose from the chair and saluted with precise formality. “Thank you for your time, Knight-Commander.” He responded through gritted teeth. The door closed with a sharp snap behind him.

Cullen ran a hand through his hair and sighed. _Why must every conversation with the man end in a disagreement?_ He wondered idly. They both agreed that magic was dangerous and needed suitable precautionary measures. It was astounding how much their opinions could clash around that point of commonality.

“Alrik and I served together as Knights-Corporal. He was a staunch ally once.” Meredith remarked as Cullen rose to leave.

Cullen raised an eyebrow disbelievingly. “With all due respect, I find that hard to believe. His is not a popular name in the Gallows.”

“So it would seem.” She waved a hand to dismiss the conversation and shuffled a report from the pile on her desk, “One final moment of your time before you return to your duties. You will recall Knight-Corporal Emeric?”

Cullen nodded and sat back down. Emeric had presented concerns of a possible rogue blood mage operating in the city over the past three years. It had been a concerning theory. And so, in a rare show of cooperation from city authorities, he had been given leave to investigate and liaise with the Guard if necessary.

Meredith handed over a collection of notes, “Two days ago, they raided the home of a Hightown noble.”

He paged through the messy collection of notes and tattered scraps of paper. Clearly Emeric hadn’t paid much attention to instruction on proper reporting practice. The odd few words stood out or were underlined. “ _Signs of blood magic”. “Demons”. “Only women of a certain age group??”_

“Did the Guard find evidence of these suspicions?”

“None whatsoever. I was forced to write an apology to the noble in question.” She glared at the notes in Cullen’s hand, “I do not welcome such embarrassments to the Order.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered in an undertone. The last thing they needed was to make the Guard even more reluctant to cooperate with Templar investigations. “From what little I can make out, Ser Emeric seems quite convinced. We could appeal to allow the Order to take over the investigation entirely. Knight-Lieutenant Conrad has had plenty of success in rooting out apostates.”

“Ser Emeric has been banned from any further inquiries, and I will not commit other resources on vague assumptions.”

Cullen barely managed to supress a look of incredulity as he leaned back in his chair. He very nearly questioned her decision before reining in the instinctive reaction. Meredith of all people was the last one he would have expected to step back from an investigation on blood magic. He winced as the suspicion appeared that the reaction was a stubborn remnant of the same distrust that had developed in his opinion of Greagoir after the breaking of the Circle. A _n attitude towards my commanding that I would rather not resurrect._

He wasn’t quite willing to let his concerns slide, even so. The Guard were hardly properly trained in recognising the subtler signs of magic use. And they certainly wouldn’t have any resistance to the sly influence of a blood mage if the suspect really was one. This was exactly the kind of investigation in which the Order specialised.

“I will assume that the Guard’s investigation was quite conclusive then?” Doubt and restrained uneasiness tinged his voice.

“Conclusive enough. I would not antagonise the nobility further by subjecting the suspect to a Templar investigation. Find Emeric a new assignment that keeps him out of trouble.”

Cullen exhaled and set the notes back on Meredith’s desk. There seemed to be a growing collection of templars that Meredith wanted kept away from her vague definition of ‘trouble’. “I will arrange it immediately.”

“Your support is appreciated as always.” She turned back to the reports at her desk, attention already moving on to whatever latest crisis had emerged.

Cullen left her office slowly, an unidentifiable disquiet still lurking at the back of his mind. Whether it was thanks to Alrik or Emeric he could not guess. He pushed it to one side. Whatever the source, there were more immediate and urgent problems to handle. Qunari forces. Raiders in the Gallows. The likelihood of an organised underground group of apostates. He sighed as he realised that there was little hope of the next few months being peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s all this interesting templar content that only gets referenced in codex entries. The mage underground is one that is irrelevant to Hawke apart from one or two side quets, but would have been an enormous problem in the Gallows.
> 
> The famous “Tranquility could be applied more widely” opinion that people love to hate. When Hawke confronts him (which will come up later), he explains exactly what he means: where it’s impossible to contain a mage who truly wants to deal with demons (although there are other scenarios I can imagine too, e.g. mages with dementia who can’t control their magic). So his opinion is that it should be used not just on unharrowed mages with uncontrolled or uncontrollable magic (the accepted use of the Rite, apart from its use on mages that volunteer for it), but any mage with uncontrolled or uncontrollable magic. It might not be a great opinion, but it makes sense for Cullen at this stage and he believes it’s the best they can do for a control measure when magic goes wrong.


	18. Holes in the Gallows

**Justinian 9:34 Dragon**

When Parrist had described the network of passages under the Gallows, Cullen had expected dank and confined passages. Something like the claustrophobic tunnels that snaked underneath the Darktown slums. Certainly, the updates that Knight-Lieutenant Forthrin had provided over the past few days hadn't much changed that assumption. And so, when the scout commander had requested Cullen’s instruction on a concerning discovery, he steeled himself for hours spent in cramped and miserable tunnels.

The first level was almost precisely in line with that image. The most obvious entrance that the scouts had found lay in a disused annex of the holding cells. Even with the increasing number of mages held there, there were sections that hadn’t seen use since its days as a Tevinter prison. Cullen shuddered to think how much might be hidden in the mostly empty eastern wing that flanked the opposite side of the Gallows to Templar Hall. The neglected stairwell – one of many according to Forthrin – led down to an even lower subterranean level of what might once have been storerooms. Low ceilings and archways stretched off into the distance, far beyond the pools of light cast by their torches. There was a dank chill in the air that brought to mind unpleasant thoughts of the waters of the bay that lay all around them.

Their footsteps echoed hollowly from the vaulted ceiling as they made their way through cobwebbed corridors. The occasional broken door gaped onto darkened rooms. Cullen shook his head. It would be all too easy to lose oneself down here.

The next stairwell lay in a forgotten corner of a particularly dismal storeroom littered with broken crates. Only a few rusted fragments of metal suggested that there had ever been a gate to seal the stairwell from the rest of the Gallows.

The stairs led even further down, stretching far beyond the distance of the relatively high floors that characterised the Gallows. The sandstone walls gradually transitioned to raw stone that glistened wetly in the torchlight. Cullen laid a hand on the wall and inspected the damp patch on the fingertips of his gauntlets.

Forthrin echoed the movement and skimmed a hand over the rough stone. “We’re below the level of the bay now,” he commented. “But despite what it may seem, we’re not going to end up swimming through the Waking Sea here.”

A chilling thought crossed Cullen’s mind. “I hope there’s no link to the Deep Roads. Andraste give us strength if Darkspawn enter the Gallows.”

“We’ve seen no evidence of that.” Forthrin shivered in response to the suggestion. “I stumbled across Darkspawn once while out near Sundermount. Not an experience I would like to repeat.”

The stairway continued with the occasional twist and turn before it finally opened out into a wide cavern. The creeping discomfort from the enclosed spaces on the floors above faded away as Cullen looked in open astonishment. The network underneath the Gallows didn’t bear even a passing resemblance to the Darktown passages. Instead of confined tunnels, the stairway had opened out into a grand cavern. Somehow, the light from their torches seemed to penetrate further into the distance than they had on the gloomy floor above. Flickering torchlight caught the edges of stalactites high above them and touched on countless dark passageways that pierced the walls on every side

“Welcome to the smugglers’ passageways, Knight-Captain” sighed Forthrin with a sweep of his hand that took in the full expanse of the dim underground chamber.

“Maker. How big is this network?” Cullen breathed.

“I wish I could tell you, Ser.” Forthrin pointed towards one side of the cavern. In the shelter of a disused wooden scaffold, the scouts had set up a makeshift command post. “We’ve been mapping what we can. This place could rival some of the networks we’ve scouted out around the Vimmarks,” he commented with a gloomy sigh.

He led Cullen over to the table where a handful of scouts were caught up in enthusiastic discussions. Clearly, they enjoyed the challenge more than their jaded Knight-Lieutenant. They quieted as the pair approached and made room around the large map spread over the surface. A chaotic network of tunnels and caverns was slowly emerging on the page, covered in a patchwork of incomprehensible markings and notes. The sheer volume of blank paper hinted just how vast the scouts expected the network to be.

Forthrin tapped on one corner of the map. A tiny sketched sword indicated the location of their command post. “We’re here, Ser. So far, we’ve found at least five separate routes into Darktown.” He scrubbed his face tiredly. “Maker knows how many more there might be.”

Cullen frowned. “We’d likely be best served by blocking the entrances on this end.”

“I would agree with you, Knight-Captain, but it’ll take work. We’ll need weeks to map the network properly and find all routes into the Gallows. So far, we’ve marked three into the Circle itself and two in the grounds. There’s also evidence that templars have been down here recently, so I would assume there are entrances that we haven’t found yet.” He shook his head incredulously, “I’m amazed that the Vints never bothered to block any of this off when the Gallows was still a prison.”

For a fleeting moment, Cullen found himself wishing for the isolation of Kinloch Hold. At least there, the only routes in or out were over the lake.

“And still no sign this Mage Underground yet?” Cullen asked with a faint touch of frustration. He had slept even less than usual the past few nights, in the expectation that they might strike again.

Forthrin shrugged helplessly, followed closely by apologetic head shakes from his subordinates. “They almost certainly know the network better than we do. It would be easy for them to avoid us.”

Cullen sighed in irritation and turned back to the scattered papers on the table. “You mentioned having something concerning to show me?” He shook his head at the dense network of tunnels emerging on map, “I can’t imagine it’s much worse than this immense hole in our security.”

“You’ll probably change your mind, Ser.” He tapped on another smaller cavern at an extreme edge of the mapped region. “We might not have found any renegade apostates yet, but Parrist was definitely right about the smugglers. There’s a cache concealed in a dead-end passage here. Mostly alcohol, but there are a few chests of lyrium.” Forthrin smiled morosely. “It might be well-hidden from other smugglers, but it’s impossible for any of us to miss it.” He raised a warding hand, “I assure you, Knight-Captain. None of my men touched a single vial after we’d verified what it was.”

Cullen cast a critical eye over the gathered templars. “I’m glad to hear it.” He scowled at where Forthrin had indicated on the map. “Is the cache still within the limits of the Gallows island?”

Forthrin looked up in confusion. “Just about, Ser.” He indicated faint lines that marked approximations of the perimeter of the Gallows island and the mainland. “We’ve focused on the directions that headed towards the mainland. The cache is in the opposite direction.”

A satisfied smile crossed Cullen’s face. _Perhaps it might not be all bad news_. “Then the smugglers are trespassing. No need to wait for the City Guard to handle the problem. We can seize the lyrium before it gets into the Gallows.”

A temporary grin broke Forthrin’s gloomy expression. “Well that’s certainly one way to get their attention.” He broke eye contact and feigned interest in the map spread in front of him. “Ah. What do you plan-?” He stopped awkwardly. It was not an easy question to ask without implying corruption.

“The seized goods will be handed directly to the Chantry,” Cullen answered in response to the unasked question.

The conflicted expression on the man’s face eased before he nodded decisively. “Understood, Ser.”

Cullen eased the weight of the sword and shield on his back. “We had best move quickly before any of that contraband makes its way into the Gallows.” He looked over the templars gathered around the command post. Scouts were more lightly armed and armoured than the average templar, but Forthrin had command of a single squad of conventional Knights-Templar. It would have to be sufficient. “Gather your men.”

Forthrin barked out orders until the scattered templars marshalled in neat ranks. They looked almost relaxed as they waited to move out. Seizing contraband was almost certain to be less demanding than rooting out dangerous apostates far from any reinforcement.

Cullen nodded his approval. “Lead the way.”

Forthrin took a cursory glance at a smaller map in his hand before folding it back into a pocket of his robes. The march of their booted feet resonated from the distant walls of the cavern as he led them towards a passageway at the far end of the cavern.

With every third templar holding a torch, the glistening walls reflected enough light to illuminate the passage a long way into the distance. Even with that illumination, the network of roughly hewn passageways was bafflingly complex. Cullen could have sworn they saw the same crumbling mining equipment multiple times, but Forthrin seemed to be able to lead the way confidently without referring to the map in his pocket.

After what seemed like hours of trudging through damp corridors and echoing hollows in the rock, Forthrin sped up slightly and led them down a final turn. The wide tunnel opened out into a small cavern that seemed indistinguishable from the others, but Forthrin drew them to a halt with a raised hand. He indicated a shadowed corner and lowered his voice to a murmur that barely carried past the squad arrayed behind them.

“They didn’t have any guards on the cache when we marked the location earlier, Ser. This might only be a temporary holding area.”

Cullen nodded in acknowledgement and scanned the cave’s layout. Longer than it was wide, and with two exits aside from the one they stood in. From their position, the corner Forthrin had indicated looked empty, but he could see where a thick column of rock might conceal an entrance. “Best to be cautious regardless. Follow my lead.”

Cullen gestured the lightly armoured scouts towards lookout positions. The remaining core moved towards the indicated corner. The noise of their armoured footsteps could only be concealed so far in the echoing cave, but there was no sign that anyone was around to hear them.

A doorway roughly framed in wood revealed itself as they rounded the outcropping of rock. Almost simultaneously, Cullen become aware of an achingly familiar hum that vibrated in the air. The templars around him tilted their heads slightly as they too picked up the faint strains of the melody. Cullen stole a quick glance to where Forthrin walked beside him. Despite being perhaps ten years Cullen’s senior, he was reassured to see that the man’s reaction was nothing more than a long, slow blink. Paranoia about lyrium was almost inevitable after years of being in a position to deal with the consequences of its use and abuse. Samson’s warnings so many years ago hadn’t seemed like the absurd excuses of an addict for a long time now.

Cullen turned his gaze forwards just in time to catch sight of one templar as she almost stumbled. He reached out a hand to support her elbow as she caught herself. Her eyes were wide as she looked towards him, “A stone caught my boot,” she muttered ashamedly.

Cullen shook his head. “Join the scouts in keeping a lookout,” he responded as quietly, not without a little sympathy.

He caught Forthrin’s eyes as the templar stepped back from the group. The man nodded in acknowledgement. They both knew the signs.

The low doorframe almost scraped their heads as they passed through into the side passage. Much as Forthrin had described, a few small chests lined the walls. In the darkened passage, the faint blue glow that leaked through the warped slats picked out glinting fragments in the stone walls. So much lyrium in one place sang. It wouldn’t have been audible to the smugglers, but that beautiful melody hummed incessantly and distractingly. And that unnatural crystalline shade of light was impossible to mistake for anything else.

Cullen levered open the closest chest and peered inside at the vials nestled in the straw-lined interior. The blue gleam of the concentrated lyrium almost outshone the torch in his hand. It must have been his imagination, but the sight of that blue glow seemed to tug him forwards with an almost imperceptible force.

He opened a second chest to find sacks of a blue-tinged powder that reflected scintillating specks of torchlight back at him. Lyrium dust. The substitute of choice for those who could not afford costlier processed lyrium.

“Maker’s breath.” He muttered. A quick estimate gave close to one hundred vials of lyrium and Maker knew how much lyrium dust. He shuddered to think of the value this held on the black market.

“You can see why I was concerned, Knight-Captain.” Forthrin remarked in a low aside.

Cullen kicked the chest of lyrium vials shut. It seemed to mute the distracting hum ever so slightly. “Indeed. The Knight-Commander will be pleased to have a source of black market lyrium closed off.”

He called forwards a handful of Knights-Templar and inspected them covertly. He had dealt with more than his fair share of templars struggling with lyrium. These few seemed to be young enough not to be adversely affected. Not that youth was always a reliable indicator. “Take the processed lyrium back to the command post.” He nodded to Forthrin, “Guide them back, if you would.”

A flicker of understanding caught Forthrin’s eyes as he saluted in response. “Right away, Ser.” Maker willing, the presence of their Knight-Lieutenant would be enough protection against temptation.

The hum faded into the distance as the first chests were hauled away. It was certainly easier to think without lyrium’s haunting melody pulling at his bones.

While he waited for their return, he levered open the remainder of the chests. Another of lyrium dust and a few of alcohol. Given that drinking was only banned whilst on duty or in the Gallows, the market for contraband alcohol amongst the templars was small, although still thriving. Much of this might be intended for the mages.

He looked again over the chest in the side passage. There was plenty here, but not enough to suggest the scale of operation he might have expected. Either there were other sources, or this really was only a temporary holding area.

Cullen turned at the sound of the scuff of boots from behind him. One of the scouts darted into the passage, shortsword in hand. “Knight-Captain. There are people coming through the northern passageway.”

Cullen drew his sword and settled his shield on his arm with a grim smile. _I suppose it was too much to expect we might pass unnoticed._ “Good. Perhaps now we can find the source of this contraband.”

He and the remaining templars hurried out of the side passage into the main cavern. With the distracting hum gone, it was easy to hear the thud of approaching feet from the passage at the end of the cave.

A short stocky figure was the first to emerge into the cavern. He hissed in surprise as his gaze fell on Cullen and his men. The moment he registered that the intruders were templars was obvious as his eyes widened further. “Aeducan’s beard! None of you nug-humpers are supposed to be down here.” He pulled a handaxe from his side and yelled over his shoulder. “Get out here!”

A handful of dwarves and humans crowded in behind the first arrival until they just outnumbered the templars. There were shouts of surprise and anger as the new arrivals found the cave much busier than they had expected.

Cullen settled his sword more comfortably in his grip. “You are trespassing on premises under the protection of the Templar Order. Under the authority granted to us by the Chantry and the Maker, you will be detained.”

The words slipped from his tongue with cold and formal ease as he rapidly assessed the gathered opponents. To a person, they were armed in light mail and blackened leather that were better than anything a common smuggler could afford. Clean and well-maintained weapons suggested they weren’t opposed to violence. Not a small-scale operation at all.

The dwarf snorted in amusement and lowered his axe. “Trying to edge in on our trade, huh?” He flicked a glance towards the concealed side passage, “I’m going to assume you found our product. Believe me, there’s more where that came from, fresh from Orzammar. The Carta can make it worth your while if you let us get back to business.”

“What makes you think I’d be willing to accept a bribe?” Cullen replied with an incredulous laugh. He kept his weapons raised. The leader might have lowered his, but the reinforcements behind him seemed more than ready to draw.

“Ah,” the Carta dwarf looked him up and down and finally seemed to notice the signs of Templar rank. He tried on a crafty smile. “Sorry, Knight-Captain. I should have realised sooner. A man of your rank rates better treatment. Me and the last Knight-Captain had an . . . understanding, you could say. A regular supply of lyrium in return for looking the other way. I can offer you the same.”

He smirked at the templar to Cullen’s side. The same woman who had stumbled as they approached the cache. A thin sheen of sweat glinted on her face and the sword in her hand shook slightly as she stared intently at the dwarf. “What do you say, Ser Knight? As much lyrium as you need to cure those shakes.”

“Stand down, Ser Leanne,” Cullen warned her.

The templar glanced towards Cullen with jerky movements and veiled despair in her eyes. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, but after a long few seconds she nodded slowly and stepped back a few paces. Another templar stepped up to take her place with a flinty glare for the dwarf. Taunting a templar with their need for lyrium was a good way to make an enemy.

“I will say again.” Cullen addressed the dwarf coldly, “Surrender to our authority. Now. There will be no more contraband in the Gallows.”

The friendly smile faded from the dwarf’s face. “Young overachievers like you always think they know better.” He stepped backwards until he stood at the rear of the gathered Carta soldiers. “Kill the Knight-Captain first.” He snapped.

Cullen barely had a chance to sway to one side as a crossbow bolt flew through the shadowed air and skimmed off the chainmail on his arm to leave a rip in his robes. He raised his shield to cover his face and regretted for a fraction of a second that he had not thought to bring his helm.

A pair of dwarfs rushed towards him, almost identical with faces concealed behind cloth masks. Others rushed in close behind to engage the tight line of templars to either side of him.

The dwarves’ weapons blurred in the air as they slashed at him with quick chops. He was forced to lower his shield again as the diminutive stature of the dwarves meant their strikes aimed for the lower half of his body.

A wild strike whistled towards his chest. He caught the axe head on his blade and twisted sharply. Lyrium-reinforced strength tugged the axe right out of the dwarf’s hands and sent it skittering off into the shadows of the cave. A retaliatory strike from the second dwarf slid off the edge of his shield as he raised it to catch the blow. He slammed his shield forwards to knock the attacker off balance and stepped forwards quickly. Two feet of steel pierced through the first dwarf’s heart, barely slowed by the light chainmail that covered his torso. The dwarf choked wetly and stared in horror at the blade lodged in his chest. Cullen freed his sword smoothly just in time to catch the renewed attack of the second dwarf as he leapt forwards with a wordless bark of anger.

The dwarf’s blade struck sparks from his shield as he caught it again. Cullen whipped his sword around to cut a long slash down his attacker’s left arm. He was stopped from pressing the attack by a crossbow bolt that sped close enough past his head for him to feel the wind of its passage. _The Carta are taking their orders seriously_ , he thought in frustration.

He raised his shield again and slashed a reverse cut that sliced across the dwarf’s throat. The dwarf stumbled sideways clutching futilely at the fatal wound and fell right into the path of a blade wielded by the templar beside Cullen. He collapsed to the floor with a weak croak. There wasn’t a moment to recover as a third attacker appeared out of the gloom with a low growl and a pair of short axes. He caught the first blow and spared a fraction of a second to glance across the templar lines. None of his men had fallen yet, and the smugglers were quickly losing their numerical advantage.

The hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck suddenly prickled with dread, and the air filled with the familiar taste of gathering mana. His blood chilled even as he angled his shield to deflect another axe blow. There was an apostate mage.

Engaged as he was by the growling dwarf and his whirling axes, he had no chance to react. A bright flash from somewhere off to one side filled the cave with a brilliant white light. He squeezed his eyes closed a moment too late and retreated over the uneven ground. The after-effects of the magical flare left purple-edged shadows dancing underneath his eyelids. He heard gasps of pain and surprise as the templars around him were temporarily blinded. From somewhere to his left, there was a sharp yell as an attack caught a sightless templar by surprise.

He opened his eyes and blinked away dancing afterimages in time to catch sight of the mage raising arms outlined in twisting flames. The apostate had clearly fought templars before. The spells he conjured were intended to overwhelm them before they could draw on the lyrium in their blood. A risky strategy that would leave the mage defenceless if it failed.

The air hummed with magic and raised every hair on Cullen’s body as a fiery storm was summoned into life. The crackling tempest raged them, crowding them backwards towards the far end of the cavern. Tongues of flame licked hungrily at the still air and splashed off their raised shields.

A curling streak of fire licked around the protection of Cullen’s shield and along the length of his arm. He hissed as the tingle of dissipating mana transitioned to scorching pain where the flames singed his skin beneath the mail.

A few stray crossbow bolts continued to fly through the air between the streaks of flame. One templar, still partially blinded by the magical flare, stumbled as a bolt pierced through the armour above his heart. His shield dropped as he gasped and raised a hand to the wound. With layers of protective padding and chainmail, it could have been survivable. But without the protection of the shield, a particularly intense tongue of flame blazed through the man’s defences to leave him a charred corpse.

As they retreated from the heart of the storm, Cullen mustered the mental focus to call a smite down on the mage. Outlined in flames as the mage was, he was an easy target. A blue-white burst of light, quickly followed by another, lit the cavern as the concentrated energy of two smites sent the mage whirling into the wall. Cullen nodded in grim acknowledgement to the templar beside him whose smite had joined his.

With the mage incapacitated, the storm snapped out abruptly, leaving the cavern dark and shadowed. Even with the raging flames gone, the remnants of scorching heat left the air thin and suffocating. Cullen wiped away a trickle of cold sweat that had nothing to do with the flames.

A muted hum rose in the air as the templars enforced a denial of magic. They wouldn’t be caught by surprise by another hidden mage. Across the other side of the cavern, the smugglers gaped at the still-standing templars. Clearly, they had expected their apostate to be more than enough to deal with any enemy. Cullen took a slow step forwards as the smugglers wavered between advancing and retreating. They didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic to follow their leader’s orders as before.

The rush of booted feet from a passage signalled the arrival of Forthrin and the remainder of the squad. They burst into the cavern, weapons in hand. Forthrin swept a quick look over the scene before joining the reformed ranks of templars with a sharp nod for Cullen.

“Wait!” The smuggler’s leader re-emerged from where he had hidden himself with empty hands raised. He glanced in poorly concealed anger towards the unconscious apostate as he stepped over the body of one of his men.

“Look,” he chuckled awkwardly. “Perhaps there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding. How about you take the mage and let the rest of us walk out of here?”

Cullen whirled his sword in a lazy loop as the adrenaline faded from his system. “Your apostate killed a templar. I’d advise you to surrender or face justice on the end of a blade.”

The dwarf took a long moment to look over his rapidly depleting reserves of reluctant men, now outnumbered by the templar arrivals. His calculating gaze turned to the single dead templar. Finally, he nodded. “We surrender. You’d better be as honourable as you claim to be.”

The cavern echoed with clatters as weapons were dropped to the floor and the remainder of the Carta soldiers dropped to their knees with hands over their heads.

“Secure the apostate first.” Cullen ordered, “And make sure there are no others.”

The templars advanced cautiously on the prone form of the mage. A quick burst of purging energy neutralised any threat should he waken. The same treatment was given to each of the few humans mercenaries in the Carta group. A gauntleted hand on each one’s shoulder carried a quick burst of purging energy through their bodies.

Most blinked in confused relief as the purge passed over them completely unnoticed and the templars moved on. One scrambled back as a templar approached, hands held out protectively in front of him. “No need for that, surely.”

The gauntlet clamped down on his shoulder. The man flinched and coughed as all the mana was purged from his body.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, apostate,” growled the templar.

The group’s leader scowled and seemed about to say something. Cullen spoke up before the dwarf could protest.

“I’d advise you to stay silent. Harbouring two apostates is enough of a crime to add to the rest you face.”

The dwarf’s mouth snapped closed, but his scowl remained as his hands were secured behind his back. Finally, eight pairs of resentful eyes and one pair of fearful ones looked back at him.

“Take the apostates to the holding cells. The rest,” he looked over the smugglers, “are the City Guard’s problem to deal with now.”

A sneer twisted the dwarf’s mouth as he was hauled to his feet. “In this city? We’ll be out in a few weeks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've not seen much of Hawke's story recently, but next chapter should mark the start of the very busy series of events that leads into the end of Act 2.


	19. Signs of Dissent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep thinking I’ll slow down for a bit, but then I end up at a chapter like this that I've been looking forward to for a while. It ended up being quite quick to write because of that. 
> 
> Also: A tiny milestone for me. It may not be much compared to other fics, but I hit 10 Kudos. Thanks to those of you still reading!

**Solace 9:34 Dragon**

Cutting off a source of contraband in the Gallows was the one anomalous speck of good news in a tale that kept worsening. Two weeks into their reconnaissance of the tunnel network, and they were still exploring. The new challenge had lost its attraction quickly for the scouts, even with the luxury of returning to the barracks rather than a temporary camp in the wilderness.  At this point, it was impossible for any of them to say what was a leftover of Kirkwall’s mining days, and what belonged to the Gallows’ tunnel network.

Orsino grudgingly offered the Circle’s assistance to collapse the passageways that had been found. Cullen had rejected that suggestion nearly as quickly as Meredith. The last thing either of them wanted was to expose holes in their security to the very people they were charged with keeping secure. And so that left dwarven mining specialists. Every one of whom seemed eager to gouge the Chantry for every coin they could manage whilst working as slowly as possible. Meanwhile, it seemed there were now more ways to enter the Gallows from underground than there were ways aboveground. He was beginning to dread seeing Forthrin’s long face appear in his doorway.

Cullen propped his head in his hand as he reread a summary of progress for the thousandth time. The contractors seemed to believe that drowning him in correspondence would distract him, but it was possible to find useful information in amongst the reams of paper. The list of passageways that had been successfully collapsed was depressingly short. Each time he politely requested the dwarven contractors to speed up their work, he was met with extravagant promises that they never fulfilled.

At least the chances of any more bad news were minimal at this time of day. Even Meredith had retired for the night with a mild rebuke that he ought to rest at some point too. It was the first time he had seen her since she had sealed herself in her office that morning. That left him in peace to handle unresolved reports by flickering torchlight that softened the sandstone walls with a warm glow. Whether by preference or necessity, he found those quiet late-night hours could be the most productive. The silence and lack of people coming to his always-open door was certainly appreciated. _Or a convenient excuse to avoid attempting sleep,_ he though sourly. Being woken in the middle of the night by pounding at his door had only worsened what little half-hearted progress he had made to improving his sleeping habits.

He pushed the pile of paper that made up the contractors’ latest report away and turned back to the rest of the reports on his desk. A curt update from Orsino on an ill apprentice lay at the top. The boy had been comatose for days and Orsino feared he was near death. It seemed crass to suggest that tranquility might be necessary to ensure the boy didn’t wake possessed by a demon. He set the brief message to one side to return to later.

A gentle tap of footsteps in the corridor heralded the arrival of a sheepish-looking templar in his doorway. The man saluted and stood to attention. “Apologies for the lateness of the hour Knight-Captain. My Knight-Corporal sent me to report to the commanding officers, but the Knight-Commander isn’t around.”

Cullen restrained a sigh and gestured for the templar to seat himself. “Not an issue, Knight-Templar. How can I help?”

The templar sat uncomfortably and spooled out a sorry tale of woe concluding in an excuse for his recent absence from duty. Cullen would have been surprised that the man had reported to him rather than Meredith, but it wasn’t uncommon anymore. No doubt the man had waited until he was certain that she wouldn’t be available.

The templar was dispatched with a stern reprimand and two weeks of punishment duty. Despite the sentence, he looked relieved as he saluted and left Cullen’s office. Barracks rumour had probably led the man to believe Meredith would have denied him lyrium on top of punishment duty.

The next missive that Cullen lifted from the slowly shrinking pile was stamped with the seal of the City Guard. He unsealed that one with a touch of trepidation. The Carta smugglers had been delivered to the City Guard, and he had heard nothing since. Given the leader’s parting words, he half expected Forthrin and his men to stumble across them again.

> _Knight-Captain Cullen._
> 
> _I imagine you’d appreciate an update on the offering you provided in the ‘spirit of co-operation’. It can be difficult to get charges to stick to Carta, but the Guard did what we could. I don’t want Carta smugglers operating in Kirkwall any more than you want them operating in the Gallows. They shouldn’t bother either of us for a long time now._
> 
> _Friendly warning in case you still have any templars making discreet inquiries into the Hawke family. The Viscount recently approved their claim to the Amell name. Given recent history with Templar investigations of nobles, you may wish to drop the matter._
> 
> _Guard Captain Aveline Vallen_

He threw that note down on top of the other and let out a long exhalation. In fact, he had almost managed to forget that name. It hadn’t turned up in any reports for long enough that he had decided she was harmless, even with her unwise association with the Grey Warden mage. _There are much more immediate concerns than a Fereldan refugee who has actually managed to succeed in this city_.

He looked up in alarm as a sonorous bell echoed down the corridor and through his open door. The clanging bell was nothing like the gentle peals that marked the time. Clearly that idle thought had been tempting fate. Another raid. Despite all their planning and preparations. He had prayed they wouldn’t be senseless enough to try again. Evidently, the ringleaders had thought a two-week gap was enough for the templars to grow complacent.

He bolted up from his desk and grabbed his weapons from the stand by the door. At least this time they were prepared for this eventuality. Karellian and Alrik would have men on standby ready to react, but it would do no harm for him to attend.

He swept out of the commanding officers’ corridor into Templar Hall’s internal courtyard. Dim moonlight picked out the vigilant figures of the templars stationed on guard for the night watch. They saluted sharply from their posts as they spotted Cullen appear.

“Knight-Captain,” one called out, “Would you like backup?”

Cullen shook his head in the negative as he strode through the courtyard. “Stay here and keep the entrance locked down. I don’t want anyone sneaking through here while our backs are turned. Karellian and Alrik’s men will handle the Circle.”

The Circle’s entrance hall was filled with activity when he arrived. Despite the lateness of the hour, the expansive space was brightly lit with flaring torchlight that turned the bustle of armoured figures into glinting beacons. Cullen scowled at the disorganised commotion. He and Meredith had conducted comprehensive planning meetings with all the Circle Knights-Lieutenant precisely to avoid this sort of response.

Cullen spotted Karellian coordinating proceedings by the main stairway up to the first level of the Circle. The man looked harried as more than his fair share of Knights-Corporal queued for orders. The gathered templars parted as Cullen strode over to Karellian’s side.

“Report, Ser Karellian.”

“Another raid, Knight-Captain. As far as we can tell, they made off with one mage from the seventh floor. Most of them escaped before my men could reach them. The rest are dead.” His eyebrows lowered in a dark scowl. “Unfortunately.”

“All the gates between levels are sealed and guarded.” Cullen responded incredulously, “How did they get up there?”

“Unconfirmed as of yet, Ser.” Karellian dispatched another Knight-Corporal with a brusque set of orders and turned back to Cullen, “They sent a smaller group this time. The new patrols only managed to catch the tail end.”

Cullen catalogued the gathered templars as Karellian spoke. The reason for Karellian’s harried expression and the small queue of Knights-Corporal suddenly became quite evident. “Where in Andraste’s name is Alrik?” He snapped.

Karellian shook his head with an exasperated huff. “Haven’t seen him since I went off duty yesterday, Ser.” The man bit off whatever angry complaint he was clearly tempted to make.

“Maker’s breath. Now is not the time for him to disappear.” He scanned the waiting Knights-Corporal, “Knight-Corporal June. Coordinate Knight-Lieutenant Alrik’s men. I need a full roll call of the Circle’s residents.”

She saluted with a ready smile, “Right away, Knight-Captain.”

As Cullen ascended the main stairway, he inspected the portcullis that sealed off the upper floors of the Circle from the entrance hall. Even raised, it was obvious that there was no sign of tampering or damage. It was possible that a mage might have managed to lift the heavy iron gate somehow, but that magical effort could hardly have been subtle. The idea that the main stairway could have been breached in full sight of the watch guards stationed to keep an eye on the exits into and out of the Circle was absurd. Clearly, the raiders knew of subtler points of entry.

The gates between the following levels were just as undamaged. The templars on duty there reported that they hadn’t seen or heard a thing, nor even been aware of the faint traces of magic that might be felt as a mage lit a candle. But the training halls and public levels below the dormitories and living quarters were expansive, and it was feasible that a small group might have snuck past.

Finally, on the apprentices’ dormitory level, a sign of the raiders’ passage appeared. A pool of blood marked where a pair of templars would have stood guard over the stairwell to the next floor. _Perhaps it’s time to move the apprentices to the upper levels, safe from armed assailants,_ Cullen considered as he ascended further into the Circle _._ The raiders might be recovering the odd mage, but they couldn’t know the Underground’s end goal.

This time, Cullen had every resident on the seventh floor assemble in their common area for their floor’s roll call. Bleary-eyed mages watched the squads of templars arrayed around the perimeter of the room with veiled anxiety as they seated themselves in chairs about the room. For a wistful moment, Cullen found himself wishing he could sit at one of the chess tables and forget everything about the whole mess. Instead, he strode to stand in front of the room full of mages and clasped his hands tightly behind his back. He blinked away a brief flicker of walls and ceilings painted in blood. It was all too easy to remember the carnage an abomination could leave in a room full of people.

“This evening, another of your fellows escaped from the Gallows,” he began icily. He swept his gaze over the gathered mages. “I have heard every one of your complaints regarding the increased restrictions.” It was easy to spot the sources of complaint. They were the ones who met his cold look with fiery ones of their own rather than ducking their heads to avoid his gaze. “We cannot know the assailants’ true intentions and so the restrictions will remain in place so long as the threat to this Circle’s security remains. If any of you have information concerning how Mage Tamhas or any of the previous escapees communicated with these dangerous criminals, I ask you to come forward privately.”

 _Vain hope,_ he thought as he scanned the mages. An organisation like the Mage Underground would hold an almost legendary status amongst the more rebellious residents of the Circle. And loyalty applied between the mages as much as it applied between templars.

His glance flicked from person to person. He restrained the impulse to look for magical threats and looked instead for hints of any who might hold more information. In the corner of the room, he spotted a small gathering of ex-Starkhaven mages. If Tamhas had spoken to anyone, it would have been his fellows from Starkhaven. Their unofficial leader glared at him as she saw Cullen focusing on her. The woman was trouble, whatever excuses Thrask made for her. Not a flicker of acknowledgement from anyone in the room otherwise.

He swept a dismissive hand over the room. “Escort them back to their chambers.”

There was no sign that the raiders had penetrated further than the seventh floor, but they completed a full roll call regardless. Once again, Cullen found himself knocking on the First Enchanter’s door in the dead of night. The door creaked open just as quickly as it had the previous time. Orsino rolled his eyes and stepped back from the door with a sweep of his hand.

“We must stop meeting like this, Knight-Captain. People will talk.”

Cullen coughed. “Yes,” he managed to choke out past his surprise at the gibe. He stepped in to give the room a cursory search. Given the First Enchanter’s sense of responsibility to the mages he led, he sincerely doubted there was any risk. But there could be no exceptions. “Just a formality, First Enchanter.”

Orsino sat in an armchair and drummed his fingers on the armrest as he watched Cullen’s superficial search, “Your new security measures didn’t do much good, did they?”

“There’s only so much we can do until the we find a source of information on this Mage Underground.” Cullen responded wearily. He glanced sharply over to where Orsino sat, “If you know anything-”

“I don’t,” Orsino cut him off sharply. “I know my duty as First Enchanter. The Gallows is no palace, but I would never encourage any of my mages to put themselves at risk in that way.” He sighed. “Not that Meredith believes me.”

“Recent events have given us both good reason to be cautious,” he replied with a mild note of rebuke as he opened the wardrobe.

Orsino raised an eyebrow. “You portray yourself as being of one mind with her. The faithful second-in-command enforcing her decrees. But I can tell there are more differences than you care to admit.”

Cullen looked at Orsino for a long second. The comment brought his recent discomfort in Meredith’s abrupt change in attitude into uncomfortable focus. More reclusive, more insular. Halting an investigation into a blood mage was only the latest in a string of strange decisions. It was a baffling change from a commanding officer he held in the greatest respect. He hesitated to call it paranoia, having suffered the same affliction himself. She had no reason to suffer the same. Perhaps his own paranoia still clung tenaciously to his mind if these concerns kept returning.

He shook his head to dismiss the thoughts. “Trying to encourage doubt is unworthy of you, First Enchanter. I follow my Knight-Commander’s orders.” Voicing the words didn’t soothe his disquiet as much as he hoped.

Orsino chuckled bitterly. “Yes, you do.” He pushed himself up from the armchair and stood by the door, “If you’re done, I would like to get a little more sleep before the sun has completely risen.”

Cullen stopped just before the doorway. “A moment, if you please, First Enchanter.”

Orsino cocked his head, “Yes?”

“I understand that you feel it is your duty to fight for what you see as the rights of your charges. But I know exactly how much harm can be done by magic without any control. I have seen that open rebellion can only end in bloodshed and tragedy. You know I would do anything to prevent that from happening again.” He met Orsino’s eyes and suppressed his reluctance at relying on him, or any mage, “They would listen to you where they would not listen to me. Help me keep peace in the Gallows.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Knight-Captain.” Orsino warned him, “You need to trust us as much as we need to trust you. A task I can see goes against your nature.” He sighed and leaned against the open door, “I do agree that peace and normality would be preferable for us both. I gather many of your men feel much the same.” He frowned at Cullen, “But there is an element on both sides that is dragging us down a different path. I will do what I can to keep the peace amongst the mages, but do not expect me to stand idle if we continue to be pushed.” He stopped just short of tapping Cullen’s chest as Cullen flinched back fractionally. “You understand to what I refer.”

“I understand, mage,” Orsino’s antagonism towards Meredith’s decisions regarding the Circle of Magi was hardly news. He might not approve, but he hadn’t the eloquence to provoke a sudden change in heart from the mage. Cullen shrugged and feigned indifference as Orsino withdrew his hand, “But that is all I would expect from you. Good night, First Enchanter.”

By the time Cullen made his way all the way back down to the entrance hall, Alrik had still not arrived. Karellian’s irritation was obvious from the way the Knights-Corporal scurried off at high speed after providing their reports.

Karellian stalked over to Cullen as he descended the final few steps back into the entrance hall. Whatever complaint he had held back hours earlier now boiled out of him.

“Knight-Captain. Alrik still hasn’t arrived. I’ve usually got no quarrel with the man, but I must register a complaint.”

“Understandable, but let’s find the man first before I send him to the Knight-Commander for a reprimand.” Cullen called over one of Alrik’s Knights-Corporal, “I’ll assume you haven’t seen Knight-Lieutenant Alrik either?”

The Knight-Corporal shook her head. The look of confusion on her face seemed genuine enough. “No, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Take a few of your men and check the usual templar haunts in Kirkwall. The taverns. The, ah, Blooming Rose.” He winced and prayed the torchlight hid the emerging blush. “You have my authority to detain him if you find him.”

“He prefers Hightown taverns,” added Karellian curtly, “Try the one near the Olton estate.”

“Ser.” The Knight-Corporal saluted and hurried off. Karellian’s salute followed quickly after as he stomped back to the pair of templars waiting for him at a polite distance.

Whatever his own distaste for the man, Alrik didn’t seem the type to desert. Desertions from the Order were vanishingly rare anyway, for obvious reasons. But given how the past few weeks had progressed, he was already planning for the scenario.

He strode over to where June was making her way down from the first floor at the head of a handful of squads. She saluted and smiled cheerfully, “All accounted for, Knight-Captain. I can confirm that only Mage Tamhas is missing.”

“Excellent. There’s little hope of tracking him until he leaves the underground tunnels, but I’m assigning your squad to hunt him down. I’ll provide you with the phylactery as soon as possible.”

“Understood, Ser.”

Cullen sighed as he scanned the slowly calming activity in the Circle’s entrance. The whole room was now lit more by the gentle touch of dawn sunlight than the flickering torches.  All things considered, it could have been worse. He confirmed a final few orders with Karellian before leaving the Circle. Meredith would be livid, but she would need a report nonetheless.

~~~~

Meredith’s reaction had been much as Cullen expected. They had spent hours discussing plans and suggestions. Meredith had returned to the same points over and over, wearing down on Cullen’s fatigued patience. But there was very little that could be done. Only one of the escapees from the last incursion had been found. He and the one they had caught in the act were obstinately silent in the holding cells. It left them with no leads to pursue. He imagined that their dwarven contractors would soon find themselves with a very convincing reason from Meredith as to why they might suddenly be able to speed up their work schedule.

Templar Hall’s internal courtyard was fully lit by daylight and it was nearer noon than dawn by the time he left the meeting. He was finally making his way up to his quarters to at least refresh himself and take his lyrium draught for the day when he spotted Forthrin leaning against a wall. There was no mistaking that long face as the man waited in the brilliant sunshine. _More bad news, no doubt_ , Cullen thought wearily. For a moment he thought wistfully of the rare mornings that followed an almost-peaceful routine. Lyrium after an unbroken night’s sleep. A visit to the chantry. Chance to wash and bathe. Dawn drills before facing the day’s duties. Not a night spent combing the Gallows for intruders and a morning spent in a meeting that went in circles.

“See Forthrin, can it wait?”

The man saluted as he pushed himself away from the wall. “I’m afraid not, Knight-Captain. There’s a ... situation in the underground passages.” His tone suggested something worse than another routine report.

“I had hoped we’d scared the Carta off for a while.” His gaze sharpened, “Or did you finally find evidence of the Mage Underground?” Closing their main routes off couldn’t come a moment too soon.

“Not quite, Ser.” Forthrin replied morosely, “There are dead templars down there. We stumbled across them not more than an hour ago. I came up to inform you as soon as we found them.”

Cullen’s eyes widened in shock. “Maker. Do you know who?” Even as he asked the question, he had sickening sense that he could make a good guess.

“Alrik and a few of his men, Ser.” Cullen’s stomach sank to somewhere level with his boots as Forthrin confirmed his suspicion. Forthrin shook his head, “Whoever killed him was not happy to see him.”

Cullen kneaded his forehead and closed his tired eyes for a moment. _Maker. More dead templars on my hands._ Some lyrium would be ideal right about now. “Carta deal gone wrong?” Alrik didn’t seem the type. But judging by what the Carta had insinuated, Knight-Captain Harmoran had dealt with them too, and he certainly wasn’t the type. “Or did he decide to take matters into his own hands regarding the Mage Underground?” Alrik had taken the rejection of his proposal rather personally.

“We didn’t find them on any of the routes we believe are used by smugglers. And there are magical wounds. I’ve set a few men to guard the bodies but left them undisturbed for you or the Knight-Commander to examine.”

“I’ll handle this.” It would be better not to disturb Meredith until details were confirmed. Cullen quickly assessed his internal fatigue. This was a situation that needed his full focus. “I will join you shortly.”

A fresh draught of lyrium still danced over Cullen’s tongue and sparkled in his blood as he descended towards the scouts’ command post. Forthrin was pacing anxiously at the base of the stairway as Cullen arrived. The cold light of the glowstones they had set up in the cavern cast his skin in a pale and sickly tone.

Forthrn saluted with jerky anxiety and beckoned over a few of his men. “This way, Knight-Captain.”

The silence of the passageways felt oppressive this time. They wouldn’t have been cheerful at the best of times but knowing that dead templars lay somewhere in the maze of passages did little to improve the area. The thought must have been preying on Forthrin’s mind as well.

“I had my men scouting in pairs, but I’m not convinced it’s safe anymore.” His voice was muffled by the tunnel’s confines. He shook his head, “I don’t want any of my men to end up like Alrik.”

Forthrin led them through a rough-framed doorway into a small hollow. Sharp salutes echoed as the few templars posted at the narrow entrance pulled themselves to attention. He passed between the guards and indicated down an irregular set of steps carved into the rock. “Here, Ser.”

It would have been obvious even without Forthrin’s warning. Residual mana still filled the air with a metallic tang and raised the hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck. A single templar lay sprawled on the lowest stone step with his neck at an unnaturally sharp angle. The man still held his sword in a tight death grip, but his shield lay a few paces from his outstretched arm. The sword blade was bloodied, but not enough to suggest anything more than superficial wounds.

Cullen paced down past the first body into the centre of the hollow. The spreading pool of torchlight revealed a massacre. Five templars in total were scattered in various unnatural poses of death. Some had armour that was dented and torn by vicious blows of a heavy blade. White-fletched arrows pierced with stunning precision through slit helms and into the weak spot under the armpit of others. He shuddered slightly as he stepped lightly around the pools of blood. Dead templars was a sight that he was clearly not destined to be free from, in waking or sleeping hours.

Alrik himself seemed to have received the brunt of the attack. A scorched track of blackened and warped metal traced a perfectly straight line that started at his neck and ended below his breastplate. The flames had melted right through layers of steel and chainmail to the flesh beneath, completely overwhelming the templar’s innate resistance to magic. The healing burn on Cullen’s arm twinged in sympathy. It would have been difficult to tell that Alrik had even been a templar. His robes were charred black and the etched Sword of Mercy had been completely obliterated by the damage.

Whatever magical threat they had faced must have been powerful or fast enough to catch them completely by surprise before any of them could draw on their templar abilities. Or a worse thought. The templars _had_ been able to draw on the lyrium in their blood. And their mage assailant had overcome them nonetheless. A blood mage, or abomination. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the bodies. The narrative of the skirmish was ever so slightly familiar.

Cullen crouched down and inspected Alrik’s body, holding his breath to block out the unpleasant smell of char. No clues or hints on the body as to what the man had been doing down here. If he had brought coin in payment for contraband lyrium, it wasn’t on him anymore. He glanced back over the other dead templars. Knights-Templar, and all had been Alrik’s subordinates. There was no doubt that Alrik had been the ringleader of whatever latest travesty this was.

He looked up to where Forthrin and his reinforcements waited on the steps. “Where do these passages lead?”

Forthrin’s eyes flickered as he thought for a moment. “This area is a little out of the way. You could get into Kirkwall eventually, but there are faster routes. It does connect easily to the Circle itself though.”

“And you removed nothing from the scene?”

“I swear on Andraste’s pyre. We left the area exactly as we found it.” He glanced over to the templars posted on either side of the entrance to the hollow. “I will vouch for my men.”

Cullen growled in irritation. More mystery dead templars. He cast one final look over the bodies and whispered a fragment of the prayer for the departed. A service he would rather not have to conduct so often.

He stood and stalked back up to where Forthrin waited. The muted distress he felt at more deaths was mostly overridden by frustration. It was impossible to protect the men under his command if they insisted on involving themselves in furtive dealings behind his back. Whatever Alrik had got himself into had led to his death at the hands of a mage. Precisely the kind of scenario the Order was intended to prevent.

He frowned across to the waiting templars. “Bring the bodies up to Templar Hall. Maybe the light of day will help resolve this mess.”

~~~~

With the identity of the dead templars confirmed, Cullen had no choice but to bring the latest bad news to Meredith. However slow she was to answer her door, she reacted quickly on receiving the news. She swept through Templar Hall in a seething rage, almost totally blind to the templars and affirmed that darted out of her path.

Her simmering anger was a stark contrast to the serene calm of Templar Hall’s infirmary. The lone Spirit Healer seconded to Templar Hall’s infirmary quickly made himself scarce, trailed by his vigilant templar chaperone. Only the Tranquil continued to work, unfazed by her rapid entrance.

She swept past neat rows of beds to the bodies laid out at the far end of the room, out of sight of the few recovering templars. One of the less-injured templars propped himself up with an apprehensive glance and half salute as Meredith passed his bed. Cullen waved him back down as he followed in her wake

She spent barely a moment inspecting the bodies before she skewered a waiting chantry healer with a particularly icy glare, “You. What happened to them?”

Healers in service to the Templar Order saw plenty of grievous and fatal injuries, even with the Order’s ready access to mage healers from the Circle.  The man efficiently listed the fatal wounds and their likely source. He stopped last over Alrik’s body. His assessment confirmed exactly what Cullen had assumed from his cursory examination of the bodies.

“A maleficar?” Her exclamation was pitched high with supressed anger. “Even in death, Alrik has done us a service by warning us of a possible danger. But how in the Maker’s name could this have happened under our noses?”

“I plan on finding out, Knight-Commander” Cullen hesitated for a moment before forging onwards. “With your permission, I would like to search Ser Alrik’s quarters for any hints as to his intentions.” In light of Meredith’s history with Alrik, it was difficult to ask, but necessary.

She glared at him. “Alrik has served well. I hope you do not intend to speak ill of the dead.”

Cullen met her stare evenly. “His reasons for being down there are unanswered. Good or ill, finding out what he was doing might help us resolve this mystery.”

She watched him for a few moments longer before her scowl lifted fractionally. “You have my permission and my confidence, as always.”

Cullen inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I will report to you when the search is complete, Knight-Commander.”

“See that you do, Cullen,” She called after him as he left the infirmary. “The sooner we can put this behind us, the happier I will be.”

Cullen paused by the barracks before making his way up to the level holding the officers’ quarters. A scattered handful of off-duty Knights-Templar sat on their bunks or at tables. He pulled a pair he knew were reliable away from their game of cards with a curt order to accompany him. More importantly, he knew they had little association with Alrik. Corin in particular had made his uneasiness with Alrik’s outlook known. Or at least as much as was possible without receiving a reprimand for insubordination.

The officers’ level was typically quiet in the late afternoon. It would keep the likelihood of interference or prying eyes to a minimum. Alrik’s quarters lay at the end of a corridor, a reasonable distance from where Cullen’s old quarters had been. Cullen pushed open the door and surveyed the room for a moment. Like every templar, Alrik’s quarters were sparsely furnished. Narrow bed, bookshelf, chest, and armour stand squeezed into the windowless room. The room could have been an exact duplicate of the one he had shared with Samson. But the benefits of age and experience meant Alrik hadn’t needed to share the room with anyone. That left half the room bare apart from a bed frame and shelves that were partially filled with some of Alrik’s stray possessions.

“Check every corner.” He ordered the pair of templars trailing him, “Look for anything out of the ordinary. Letters. Contraband. A journal.”

If Corin and his friend had any reservations, they didn’t share them. They exchanged a brief look and strode through the door into Alrik’s quarters.

Alrik’s half of the room was neat, which was hardly surprising. That became unconscious habit before they were even allowed to drill with proper blades. Cullen scanned the titles on the bookshelf as the Knights-Templar searched the rest of the room. The centrepiece was a thick and ornately illuminated copy of the Chant of Light that looked like a family heirloom. Aside from that, a few histories and some of Brother Genitivi’s works filled the shelves. Certainly nothing out of the ordinary. Cullen flipped through the books. No loose leaves or anything hidden within. The rest of the relatively bare shelving was filled with one or two ornaments. There wasn’t much to give insight into the life of a man more than twice Cullen’s age.

“Andraste’s ass!” The exclaimed curse snapped Cullen around to face Corin, who crouched over Alrik’s chest of possessions.

The man had blanched pale as he turned to face Cullen. “Ah. Apologies, Knight-Captain.”  He pushed himself up from his crouch and offered the offending item to Cullen with a subtle shudder.

Loosely in his hand, he held a blackened iron rod. Cullen’s blood ran with ice at the sight of the subtle silvered gleam of a lyrium-infused sunburst head. Typically, only a Knight-Commander was permitted to use a lyrium brand. Even a Knight-Captain was only rarely authorised to conduct the Rite. Cullen could count on one hand the number of times he had been present for the ritual, and had wielded the brand himself only once, when Meredith had been away from Kirkwall. The average templar would never have seen a lyrium brand, let alone observed the Rite itself. But the object’s function was clear as day to anyone who had seen the marked forehead of a Tranquil mage. Corin looked slightly ill and seemed eager to put the brand down as though Tranquility were conferred simply by touching it.

Cullen bit back a curse and took a few steps forward to peer into the open chest. As he had feared, it held a few vials of lyrium. To the untrained eye, the vials’ contents would have looked much like normal chantry lyrium. It might not be permitted, but it wouldn’t be uncommon for a templar to have one or two vials spare. Meredith had exempted the senior officers from any suspicions of holding contraband, and it was entirely possible that some had taken advantage of that. But, having enacted the Rite himself, it was clear to Cullen that the vials were those that held the heavily processed lyrium used in conferring Tranquility.

He took another look at a wide stoneware bowl on the top of the bookshelf. With alternating embossed Swords of Mercy and Andraste’s face, it seemed innocent enough. It could have been a simple item purchased in the Hightown markets. But a closer inspection showed that it was a perfect match to the bowl that held the lyrium used in the Rite. The arrogance of displaying the item in plain view was staggering. He couldn’t hold back the curse this time. Corin winced in sympathy.

He collected the brand from Corin’s loose hold. “Fetch the Knight-Commander immediately. However busy she is.”

Corin rushed out in a rustle of robes, leaving his companion at a loose end. He continued his search after a moment of hesitation. Even as he continued checking around the room, he sent sickly glances back to the brand clenched in Cullen’s gauntlet.

Cullen rolled the brand in his palm as he waited. _Is this what I fear? Did Alrik take matters into his own hands after his proposal was turned down?_ His blood ran a little colder. _Or was he simply looking for official sanction for his actions?_

The rapid tap of boots in the corridor signalled Meredith’s arrival, trailed closely by Corin, looking even paler than when he had left. Walking in on the Knight-Commander wouldn’t have been an enjoyable experience for any Knight-Templar.

“Your summons seemed rather urgent, Cullen.” She asked with an irritable snap. “Have you found a clue that might explain Alrik’s murder?”

Cullen mutely offered her the brand. A thunderous look crossed her face. It hardly seemed possible, but she seemed more furious than when she had first seen the dead bodies in the infirmary.

“Treachery.” She hissed. She paced backwards and forwards a few steps. “I considered Alrik an ally. But this?” She hefted the brand, “This is a gross betrayal.” She spared a quick glare for the searching templars, “Leave us.”

The pair swept quickly from the room with sharp salutes and restrained sighs of relief.

Cullen stepped back to the chest and lifted out one of the vials. “Vials of lyrium suitable for the Rite. And bowl that I could swear came directly from our own supplies.”

She spent a moment inspecting the damning evidence. “No one usurps my authority in the Gallows.” She extended the brand imperiously back to Cullen. “I want all of this,” she waved a hand to indicate the tools of the Rite, “this _treason_ destroyed.” Her thunderous expression calmed a touch, “I expect you intend to interview the Tranquil to explain this tale. We will speak of this tomorrow. Great care must be taken in the investigation now. I will not have the Order’s image tarnished.”

“Of course, Knight-Commander.” He retrieved the brand and the lyrium vials. “I pray this is nothing more than a poor joke.”

The door clicked as Meredith pulled it shut after them. Cullen found it impossible to guess what her thoughts were behind her furrowed brow. She stood for a moment in the corridor facing the door to Alrik’s quarters before she responded.

“As do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Templars might be ridiculously blind to apostates, but they were bound to find evidence of what Alrik was doing eventually. It definitely explains why Cullen doesn't seem at all bothered about Alrik's death, despite him being a templar under his command who was murdered in the Gallows by an unknown mage. I have my own opinion about whether Meredith knew what was going on. You can decide what fits your image of her better.
> 
> My perspective on a lot of characters has changed as I write them (sorry Thrask, you’re a lovely guy but a seriously terrible templar). Orsino is one I've grown to like a lot more as my foil for Cullen.


	20. Alrik's Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose a warning is necessary. We know what Alrik was heavily implied to be doing. That will be obliquely referenced in this chapter.

**Solace 9:34 Dragon**

The lyrium brand glowed blue as its crisp lines gradually warped and softened in the overwhelming heat of the forge. The Knight-Commander had a duty to ensure continued trust in the Order. If evidence was found to back up their suspicions about Alrik, that trust could be irreparably damaged. But Cullen couldn’t help but feel as if it had been wrong to dispose of the evidence with such finality.

Cullen looked over at the Tranquil manning the forge. He seemed entirely oblivious to the punishing heat as he poked at the slowly melting iron.  Cullen’s eyes were drawn slowly to the brand that peeked out from behind loose locks of hair. Long-healed scar tissue marked the outline of the Chantry sunburst in pale white on his forehead.

It seemed impossible that there might be Tranquil mages wandering the Gallows who had been unlawfully subjected to the Rite. Surely someone would have noticed. Perhaps not the rank and file Knights-Templar. They had no reason to question the presence of a Tranquil and would hardly know what decisions the Knight-Commander made regarding the Rite. But the mages saw and worked with their fellows and the Tranquil every day.

He watched the Tranquil manning the forge with a note of suspicion. Abalar had worked in the Gallows armoury for many more years than Cullen had served in Kirkwall. Yet suddenly every Tranquil he had passed since yesterday had the potential to be holding a key to Alrik’s indiscretions.

“Abalar,” he inquired cautiously, “Who conducted the Rite of Tranquility on you?”

“Knight-Commander Guylian,” he responded placidly, “with approval from First Enchanter Maceron. My magical skills were deemed too weak to be safe. I am better suited to work in the armoury.”

Cullen shook his head. _I’m not sure what else I expected to hear._ “What do you know of Knight-Lieutenant Alrik?”

The Tranquil continued tending the forge. “I see him only rarely, Knight-Captain. He maintains his equipment well. I mended a worn strap on his breastplate four months ago.” He inspected Cullen's armour with a quick glance away from the forge. "I would prefer if your own armour was as infrequently damaged. The previous Knight-Captain did not see as much combat."

Cullen shook his head. Exactly the kind of minor detail that the meticulous Tranquil would recall. “Nothing further?”

The Tranquil turned fully away from the forge to face him, scanning Cullen’s face as he struggled to interpret the meaning of the question. “I have no cause to interact with Knight-Lieutenant Alrik outside of the armoury.” A hint of a furrowed brow was the closest the Tranquil could come to distress. “If you inform me what information you require, I would be better able to assist.”

Cullen waved a hand to dismiss the question. “Never mind. Thank you.”

The glowing lump of iron let out a final snap and shower of blue sparks that filled the air with the taste of lyrium. Abalar turned back to the forge and moved to extract the crucible of molten metal. “With your permission, I will return to my tasks for the day, Knight-Captain.”

“Of course.”

Cullen turned on a heel and swept out of the stifling heat of the Armoury. Maker willing, every Tranquil in the Gallows would have the same answer as Abalar. And yet if there was a reasonable explanation for the brand being amongst Alrik’s possessions, Cullen hadn’t the imagination to find it. Certainly, he could not find a connection between his ownership of the brand and his presence in the underground passages.

His thoughts were still tracking through one unlikely possibility after another as he entered the training yard. The clatter of wooden training swords resounded from the high stone walls as ranks of the youngest recruits ran through their morning drills. Keran and his fellows paced slowly through the ranks, correcting the odd misplaced sword stroke under the bored gaze of their chaperone. After years with no sign of corruption, Cullen had agreed to Lovett’s request that they be allowed to assist in a limited capacity. The chaperone was a concession that kept Cullen’s lingering concerns at bay.

Cullen stood back a moment to watch the recruits drill. The neat ranks moved their way hesitantly through the final motions of the simplest set of sword forms. The movements held none of the smooth lethality of an initiated templar, but that was hardly a surprise. Their newest recruits – some less than ten years of age – faced a long and gruelling training regime before they could come anywhere close to matching the rawest initiates.

Those who had come from noble families were easy to spot amongst the ranks. They were the ones who at least managed to hold their training swords as if they knew which end was dangerous. Cullen winced as one recruit fumbled a sword form and thrashed quickly at the air to cover his mistake.

Ambris stalked towards the recruit to tower over the boy – half her height and a quarter of her age – with a stern glare. “Precision and efficiency, Recruit. Templars do not flail like poorly-trained mercenaries.” She corrected his posture with sharp tugs. “Again.”

The recruit fell back into line and resumed the final motions of the drills with slightly smoother movements. It was vaguely reminiscent of Cullen’s own first attempts to follow the templars stationed in Honnleath. He had no doubt that Ambris’ less than tender instruction would correct the recruit soon enough.

Ambris’ scowl lightened slightly as she spotted Cullen and wandered over to him. “I can’t recall ever being quite that useless.” She muttered as she saluted. “How can I help, Knight-Captain?”

With her back turned, the recruits whispered to each other and gawked at the senior templars with poorly-concealed stares. Cullen could recall the awestruck wonder he had felt when Redcliffe Arling’s Knight-Captain had come to Honnleath. Somehow, the position didn't seem quite as lofty now that he held a Knight-Captaincy.

He turned his attention back over to Ambris. “If you would join me in the main courtyard?” This was not a conversation that needed the prying ears that were always present in Templar Hall.

Her gaze sharpened. “Right away, Ser.” She spun on a heel and called out to one of the other training officers. The recruits scurried back into position as her attention returned to them. “Knight-Corporal Uther. Take over the drills.”

Cullen led her to a shaded spot in the courtyard, well out of the hearing of visitors or guards. “I imagine you've heard about Ser Alrik.” He paused to gauge her expression. She nodded her assent with a neutral nod. Rumour travelled impressively quickly in an enclosed environment like a Circle. “The circumstances surrounding his death were … less than savoury. You would have worked closely with him whilst you served in the Circle. Did you have any concerns about his conduct?”

“Concerns, Knight-Captain?” She tapped a finger against her lips in thought. Her brows furrowed as she considered how much it was sensible to say. “He served the night shift more often than the day shift. I was the reverse. I know more complaints were registered against him than average.” She frowned at him. “But you know that. You had concerns a few years ago about one of those complaints.”

“You admitted to nothing at the time,” he reprimanded her lightly with a raised eyebrow.

She gave him a guilty smile, “That was a mistake, Ser. At the time, I was reluctant to speak badly of him based on only a feeling.”

“Would Ser Rost and Ser Karellian know more?”

She shook her head slowly. “Karellian didn’t get on with Alrik, Ser. Claimed he was always shirking his duties. He was never around when Karellian was looking for him. Rost is a good friend of mine from when we served in the Circle together. I can’t recall him spending much time around Alrik.” She considered a moment longer, eyes flickering as she thought. Mixing between ranks was discouraged. The pool of Knights-Lieutenant that Alrik might have known was a fraction of the hundreds of templars that served in Kirkwall. “Alrik had begun to spend more time around Bardel, until he was killed a few years ago.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. The Knight-Lieutenant who had been found dead in the chantry with Karl Thekla, the Tranquil mage. _Coincidence?_ he thought in vain hope. It was curious that the friendship had been recent. They would have known each other for years prior to Bardel’s death.

“Any other friends?”

She barked out a sharp laugh. “Alrik wasn’t the type to have friends, Ser. I wouldn’t call his association with Bardel a friendship anyway. Alrik ordered, Bardel obeyed.” She shook her head. “Alrik always did wish he had a Knight-Captaincy. For some reason, Bardel suddenly decided to let Alrik indulge that fantasy.”

“Did Ser Alrik have much to do with the Tranquil?”

She frowned in confusion at the sudden change in direction. “No more than the rest of us, Ser. You know that almost everyone tries to ignore the Tranquil. Of course, we all knew his opinion of the use of the Rite.”

“If anything else comes to mind, please let me know.” At least he had one additional line of investigation to pursue.

She saluted with a small frown. “Of course, Knight-Captain. If you don’t mind my saying, aren’t investigations like this usually the domain of the Seekers?”

“You aren’t wrong,” he sighed, “but the Knight-Commander would prefer for me to resolve this matter internally.” Her exact words had been slightly harsher. _Puffed up fools, blind to anything but their own superiority over the Order. If there is an issue, it is one we can solve ourselves_. Would have been a more accurate repetition of her response to the suggestion that Seekers might be necessary.

Ambris chuckled humourlessly. “Far be it from me to argue with that. I’ll let you know, Ser.” She glanced off to one side over Cullen’s shoulder, and her eyes narrowed as she spotted a pair of civilians approaching them from the Gallows’ main entrance.

“Knight-Captain Cullen! Beaten up any recruits lately?”

Cullen winced internally at the sound of a voice he had been glad not to hear for three years. That had not been a shining moment of his time as Knight-Captain.

Ambris took a step forwards and gave Hawke and her companion a pointed look. By this point, every templar in the Gallows had the name and description of Anders, the Grey Warden mage of Darktown. Cullen's own reaction was a quickly-suppressed shudder at the sight of a piece of Kinloch Hold brought to life in front of him.  _He wasn't there_ , he reminded himself nauseously.  _There is no danger._

“The Knight-Captain has people like me to do that for him,” Ambris responded sharply. The year spent away from the constant vigilance needed in the Circle hadn't dulled her suspicious habits much. “Do you have a reason for disturbing us, or do you make a habit of wasting a Knight-Captain’s time?”

Cullen laid a restraining hand on Ambris’ folded arms. “Serah Hawke has been a friend to the Order in the past. Excuse us for a moment.” Ambris spared a finally cold glare for the pair before retreating to a polite distance. “Hawke. I hear congratulations are in order. Is there something you need?”

“I could ask the same of the Templars. It’s been quite a while since I rescued anyone for you.”

“You’re kind to offer, but after what happened with Tarohne, the Knight-Commander has closed ranks and eliminated all work with outsiders. I'm afraid I have nothing to offer you. Or your … friend.”

He dared to cast a particularly cautious look over the Grey Warden mage and momentarily regretted that he wasn’t armed. It was doubtful the mage recognised him from Ferelden, but he was hardly making an effort to conceal his status. A bright crystal mounted at the top of a long staff glittered with captured sunlight. There wasn’t even a token effort to disguise the weapon. The move couldn't have been better calculated to raise old memories closer to the surface.

“Really? Because it looks like some of you are forgetting what you’re actually supposed to be doing.” She shoved a folded letter towards him. “Your Ser Alrik was working on a plan to turn all mages Tranquil. There goes my fine opinion of the Templars.”

Cullen collected the letter with a dubious glance, temporarily distracted from his nauseous tension. Alrik must have discussed the rejected proposal with someone. His brows lowered as he read the contents. An unsealed and unsent letter penned in Alrik’s hand. Never mind that he had felt the need to go over Meredith’s head and write to the Divine again. That was a moot point now that the man was dead.

“I will not ask how you came by the personal effects of a man recently murdered within our own walls.” He responded with an edge of suspicion as he placed the letter in a pocket. “There has been some discussion of the idea. But as you can see, it has gone no further than that.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Anders interjected with an incredulous laugh.

“The Harrowing has served us well enough for centuries,” Cullen snapped in response, far too tense to even consider tact. “It will be up to mages themselves whether they push us to more stringent measures.”

Hawke seemed to spot the light of sick recognition in Cullen's eyes. She moved to place herself in front of Anders, forcing Cullen to halt his wary scrutiny of the mage. He found himself grateful that he could break his stare before Kinloch Hold forced itself closer.

“It sounds like you support this.”

“The Tranquil ritual was created as a mercy so that mages need not be killed out of hand for a threat they might pose.” He answered cautiously. Given the loose definition in Chantry decree, the lawful use of the Rite was a line that was defined differently in every Circle. His own standing might be found too lenient by Meredith and had been too severe for Greagoir. “There is an argument for applying it more widely.”

Anders pushed himself past to meet Cullen’s eyes with a combative stare before turning back to Hawke. “Are you going to listen to this? He’s no better than Ser Alrik.”

“Do you think it’s easy to contain a mage who truly wants to deal with demons?” he asked disbelievingly. The underlying anger raised by a reminder of Ferelden he would rather not see leaked out before he pushed it away. “In such cases, it is better they face Tranquility than lead to the deaths of countless others.” _Something that_ you _ever so conveniently avoided when you ran from the Circle Tower,_ he added bitterly. “But many mages have made it clear they view the ritual as no better than death. They want no controls on them at all.”

It was easy for others to claim the decisions of the Templar Order were wrong when they were not faced with the consequences of out-of-control magic. The blood and death and pain.

Ever so gently, he drew on the lyrium on his blood. It wouldn't have been felt more than a few paces away, but the deepening scowl showed that Anders felt as his mana fled from easy grasp. A gentle warning that the Templar Order knew who and what he was. Cullen continued addressing them smoothly as he dropped the denial as quickly as he had enforced it. “The strictures governing the Circle of Magi and Templar Order have served to protect everyone – mage and non-mage alike – for Ages. We have done our best with an impossible task.”

“I haven’t seen any evidence of that, Templar.”

“Drop it, Anders,” Hawke whispered heatedly, pushing him back. “We did what you wanted. Justice or vengeance, whatever you call it, has been served. Now is really not the time or place to look for another reason to get angry.” She waved a hand in Cullen’s direction and raised her voice, “I apologise for his terrible manners. He should really be going. Can’t say we’re disappointed that this Alrik’s plan wasn’t approved. Terribly sorry to hear that he’s dead.” She finished with an insincere smile as she pushed Anders out of the courtyard.

Cullen beckoned Ambris back over from where she waited. He subtly pointed out the retreating mage. “Watch that one.”

Her eyes narrowed as she turned to observe. “The Grey Warden from Darktown? We’ve been warned off him, Ser.”

“There’s something not quite right there,” he replied darkly. A feeling he couldn't help but indulge. Whether it was simply for a mage outside the control of a Circle, his connection to this most recent mystery, or something else, he couldn't say.

“I’d feel a lot better if we could do something about him, Ser.” She shook her head slowly. “But Warden mages are exempt from Templar oversight.”

“As soon as we can justify beyond reasonable doubt that he is a risk, I would be more than willing to face their anger.”

It was obvious that one or both had known more than they admitted. The familiarity of the scene of Alrik’s death had finally returned to him. It was unlikely to be coincidence that twice now templars had been killed by a mage, with baffling connections to the Tranquil. He started guiltily as he realised he had actually felt mildly grateful for whatever part they might have played. It was increasingly easy to believe that Alrik had been at the heart of some form of deep corruption.

~~~~

Cullen drummed his fingers on the table top as he waited. So far, the two Tranquil he had spoken to had presented him with nothing useful. Somehow, he had held the naïve hope that the mystery would be easily solved with the very first Tranquil he questioned. Certainly, Meredith hadn’t expected anything of value to emerge. _I don’t know whether I should be glad or irritated that I’ve found nothing so far,_ he mused idly.

A familiar figure in black robes darkened the doorway with a sniff of disapproval. Orsino scowled at him and leaned against the doorframe. “Knight-Captain, I hear you’re interviewing the Tranquil.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you heard.” The interviews were being conducted in the Circle itself, closer to where the Tranquil were accommodated. It would have been more surprising if Orsino hadn't found out. “But this is a Templar matter. There’s no need for you to attend.”

“Oh?”  Orsino made a show of looking over the room. On the wall behind Cullen, a banner of the Circle of Magi was unsubtly flanked by a pair of Templar Order pennants. “If I’m not mistaken, this is the Circle, not Templar Hall. Anything that happens here is my business.” His sardonic smirk twisted into something grimmer. “And the Tranquil mages are my responsibility. Unfortunately, I am guilty of not having paid as much attention to the Tranquil as I should. I would rectify that.”

“All right,” he sighed in response, and gestured with an open hand to the seat beside him. “But you will attend as an observer. Nothing more.”

Orsino shrugged noncommittally as he stepped into the room. “If you recall our previous discussion, I can make no promises.”

He eased himself into the seat next to Cullen, casually shifting his chair to a distance that put Cullen slightly more at ease. His staff leaned against the opposite wall, adjacent to the entrance. The Circle during daytime was never good for Cullen’s mood. Orsino was more observant than he let on.

Orsino leaned back comfortably, irritatingly indifferent to the magic that filled the air. “What exactly are your intentions in interviewing the Tranquil, Knight-Captain?”

“There have been suggestions of … misconduct.”

Orsino raised an eyebrow. “I hardly think you’ll find that the Tranquil have been practicing blood magic. Even Meredith wouldn’t suggest that.”

Cullen shuddered. “Not blood magic. You can be sure my investigation would be much less restrained if it were.” He flattened his hands on the table to hide a nervous tic. “I would prefer not to say unless evidence emerges to prove it.”

Another Tranquil was ushered into the room. He stood placidly in front of the table and looked between the pair seated in front of him. Cullen turned the majority of his attention back to the matter at hand and leaned forwards, hands tented in front of him.

The Tranquil’s flat answers to Cullen’s questions were gratifyingly mundane. His Rite had been conducted by Knight-Commander Guylian. Yes, he knew Knight-Lieutenant Alrik. No, he had never spoken to the man. He only knew Alrik from the occasions he patrolled on the Tranquil floors.

That in itself was hardly incriminating. Alrik had served in the Circle. Him being seen there was to be expected.

The next said much the same. And the next. It would be easy to become complacent and assume that there was nothing to be found, but he had spoken to only a fraction of the Tranquil in the Gallows. As each Tranquil was brought in, Cullen discreetly watched Orsino’s reactions. The suppressed guilt or sorrow made it easy to guess those mages for whom Orsino had approved the Rite, willingly or reluctantly.

He almost dismissed the next Tranquil immediately as the woman entered. He could feel Orsino’s disapproving stare burning through the side of his head without even needing to turn. The sole mage on whom he had conferred Tranquility, she was one of the few for whom he could be certain Alrik had not been responsible. Still, it was possible she might have some information he could use.

“Meirin, did you ever interact with Knight-Lieutenant Alrik?” He repeated the rote question resignedly.

“I saw him when his patrols would take him through the Tranquil floors, Knight-Captain. He would occasionally make requests of me.”

Cullen cocked his head, suddenly paying more attention. It was not entirely unheard of for a templar to make requests from a Tranquil. But usually it was from those who were permitted to work in Templar Hall.

“What form of assistance would he have required from you?”

Her lips twitched into a poor reflection of a friendly smile. “He had me tend to another Tranquil once. Her brand was recent and was in danger of becoming infected.”

Beside him, Orsino looked almost ready to say something and break his loose agreement to remain an observer. Instead, he leaned forwards to watch the Tranquil intently. Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “Surely this Tranquil should have been sent to the infirmary.”

“I work in the Circle’s infirmary, Knight-Captain. Knight-Lieutenant Alrik said it would be more efficient for me to tend her. He was correct.”

“Why would Ser Alrik have cared?” Orsino questioned Cullen in a low aside. “And why this focus on him?”

Cullen ignored the queries and forged onwards. “Please bring this Tranquil to me if you would.”

The minutes as they waited stretched out in tense silence. Cullen’s underlying tension had returned full force. He sat stiffly in his chair, fingers once again drumming on the table top. If Orsino had anything to say, he reserved his misgivings for later.

The door creaked open, and a Tranquil was ushered in. Cullen shot up in his seat. There weren’t many mages he knew by name in the Circle. Friendship was dangerous, a lesson he had learned well. Those mages he did know were usually the trouble-causers. The escapees. The ones who might be a danger to the Circle, or the few whose Harrowings he had attended. This one was not.

“Enchanter Anural?” he questioned in confusion. No, not Enchanter anymore. A sunburst brand marked her forehead, sloppily placed off-centre. Judging by the slow fading of its angry red, it had been there barely a year.

Anural had been a specialist in spirit magic, the most susceptible to possession, and the most closely monitored because of it. But from what he could recall, there had never been any signs of corruption reported.  If there had been, he would have been informed. Anural didn’t fit any of the categories that might justify the Rite.

She smiled placidly at him. “I am no longer an Enchanter, Knight-Captain.” She corrected him smoothly.

Cullen blinked at Orsino, who seemed as confused as he did. “I had not been informed that Enchanter Anural had been made Tranquil.”

Orsino opened and closed his mouth a few times before he finally found the words. “I did not approve this. Who conducted the Rite on you, Anural?” His voice was hoarse with anger as he stole Cullen's question before it could be spoken.

“Knight-Lieutenant Alrik conducted the Rite.”

“Alrik?!” Orsino spluttered in shock.

“Maker.” Cullen breathed quietly as his heart dropped. _I had prayed there was nothing to find_. He raised his voice again and addressed Orsino. “She was an Enchanter, surely you should have noticed something.” _Surely_ we _should have,_ he accused himself silently. He didn't spend enough time around the mages to know if one disappeared. But her name would have been listed alongside every other current mage inhabitant in the Gallows. She was monitored just like every other spirit magic specialist. She would have been registered as missing the very first time a regular roll call was taken. _Unless…_

“Her name was removed from the records.” He completed the suspicion aloud. Records that Alrik would have had easy access to as a senior officer.

Orsino nodded in mute agreement. “There are over two hundred mages in the Gallows. More every week. Sometimes, mages are transferred with little warning.” He slammed a fist into the table in a sudden burst of anger. “That is no excuse. I… I should have paid more attention.” He met Anural’s empty regard and winced in pain. “I am so sorry, Anural. I…” He fell silent and bowed his head.

“Apologies are not necessary, First Enchanter.”

Cullen turned a sharp look back to Anural, waiting placidly for any further questions. Whatever personality she had shown when she had dared come to him three years ago was completely absent from her eyes.

“What possible reason could he have had to confer Tranquility on you?”

“He said I asked too many questions, Knight-Captain.”

“Explain.” Cullen snapped in response. “I fail to see how that would justify the illegal use of the Rite.”

“After you finished your investigation into Theanne’s death, I still suspected there was more to be found." She began, entirely unfazed by the impatient demand. "I began to ask more questions. First in the Circle and then, when I could find nothing further, of the templars willing to speak to me. Knight-Lieutenant Alrik discovered that I was investigating her disappearance. He and some of his followers came into my quarters one night and silenced me before I could react. They subjected me to the Rite of Tranquility to rescue me from my sins.” Her final words had the ring of Alrik’s arrogantly pious tone. In that context, the words seemed repulsive. But her empty smile didn't shift an inch for the entire monotone narrative.

Cullen’s blood ran cold. Beside him, Orsino lurched up from his seat, sorrow morphing into anger. “This is absolutely unacceptable, Knight-Captain. I will see justice done.”

“Sit down, First Enchanter.” He ordered as he laid a restraining hand on the mage’s arm. “Justice _has_ been done. The man was murdered. I am beginning to believe he deserved the painful death he was given.” He rested his forehead in a hand and massaged his temples. Anural’s calm smile was completely at odds with the horror of the tale. “I will need you to identify these followers. More importantly, what did you discover that had Alrik so concerned?”

“It is a complex tale, Knight-Captain.”

“I am patient.” He replied shortly. Orsino leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He stewed in enraged silence as he watched Anural.

“I never discovered what happened to Karl. But Theanne became suspicious of the circumstances surrounding Jensen’s death. Much as I did, she began to ask too many questions. It would seem that Jensen’s death had been related to severe misconduct on the part of a friend of Knight-Lieutenant Alrik’s. She confronted him and threatened violence if he did not reveal who he was protecting. I did not discover more until Knight-Lieutenant Alrik halted my investigation. Theanne was subjected to the Rite as punishment for accusations against a templar. He mocked me with the revelation as he pressed the brand to my skin.”

She cocked her heard in mild curiosity, highlighting the angry red scar tissue on her forehead. Cullen shivered. A mage was always sedated prior to the Rite. It had never been intended as a cruel measure, and there was always a risk that those fear-filled moments as the hissing brand approached might lead to a mage calling a demon. The pain would have been incredible. And yet she still maintained her calm smile.

“I can recall that the pain of the news was greater than that of the brand. I find it does not worry me now.”

“This is beyond belief. What in the Andraste’s name was the man doing.” He said with a horrified shake of his head. He felt a sharp disconnect in his mind as his perception of the man Alrik had been drifted further and further from what he saw as a templar’s responsibility. This mystery had suddenly blossomed into something far deeper and darker than he could have anticipated. Use of the Rite without the approval of a Knight-Commander or First Enchanter was bad enough. _I have no idea what to make of these revelations._

Another element of her story drifted to the forefront of his mind. Cullen removed the hand from his forehead and sent a sharp look over to Anural. “Theanne is a Tranquil? Here in the Gallows? Surely not.”

“She was transferred, no more than a day after you confronted him.”

“Maker.” Cullen whispered again. If he had not taken Alrik’s words at face value, this whole tragedy might have been avoided. “How could you have believed she was missing if she was here the whole time?”

“Alrik preferred to have Tranquil always available to serve him personally with anything he might want. Theanne was not the only one subjected to the Rite based on Alrik’s urges. They left the Tranquil floors only rarely. I never considered looking there.”

Something about the choices of phrase set off warning bells in Cullen’s mind.

“Anything?”

“Yes, Knight-Captain. I and others would fulfil whatever needs and desires Knight-Lieutenant Alrik might have. I saw no reason to refuse the advances he made." She paused in thought. "Although I may have believed differently once.”

“Desir-” The question froze half-formed in his mouth as his mind registered what her words implied. _No. Not that._ The aborted word left the rancid taste of decay and blood in his mouth. Beside him, Orsino shook his head in mute horror as he came to the same conclusion. Cullen’s chair creaked as he unconsciously leaned back, away from the revelation. “No. You must be lying.”

“I am Tranquil, Knight-Captain. I have no reason to lie.” She scanned his face and misinterpreted his words for confusion. “It is the reason he favoured the night shift. I can elaborate if required.”

“Stop.” He blurted out in panic as he held up a warding hand. “That will not be necessary.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. _How many times have I passed Alrik when patrolling the Circle on a sleepless night? How many times might he have been returning from the Tranquil floors, laughing at my ignorance?_ His short breaths seemed to echo back at him from the close walls.

Cullen suddenly became excruciatingly aware of how confined and airless his surroundings were. Of the insistent play of magic in the air. The screech of chair legs on the stone floor filled the small room as he stood up.

“Please excuse me for a moment.”

The words spilled out of his mouth in a calm voice that seemed to originate from another person entirely.

“Knight-Captain.” Orsino called after him. “Ser Cullen. Where are you going?”

He felt physically ill as he walked blindly out of the interview room. He stumbled a few more paces down the corridor and laid a shaking hand on the wall as bile rose in his throat. Unbidden memories of the visions inflicted on him by Desire rose to the forefront of his mind.

"No," he whispered forcefully, “This cannot be possible”. _This is the antithesis of everything the Order stands for. This cannot be possible,_ he repeated silently.

He closed his eyes and whispered the Canticle of Benedictions. _In this the truth is found._ _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._ For three years, he had welcomed new initiates with those same verses. For even longer, those verses had defined his life. Every single word rang emptily in his head now. He scrambled to hold together the patchwork of faith in the Order that had held his fractured spirit together ever since the breaking of Ferelden’s Circle. _This cannot be what the Order stands for._

A soft rustle of robes down the corridor heralded the arrival of a mage from around a corner. Cullen opened his eyes and watched the man pass with fear he hadn’t the willpower to hide. He fell back on old habits and scanned the mage’s face for any sign of danger. Any hint that it might be a demon looking back at him. Even the always-present fear of that threat would have been easier to face than this panicked horror.

The mage drifted to the opposite side of the corridor as he saw Cullen standing and watching him. "Good day, Knight-Captain," the man murmured politely as he walked past.

His eyes flicked up for a moment to meet Cullen’s. He flicked his gaze hastily away again as he saw the intense scrutiny, iced over by the sharp and observant clarity of lyrium. The footsteps accelerated down the corridor into the distance.

A note of even deeper nausea filled Cullen’s gut. The forceful pain could rival the crippling agony of lyrium withdrawal. It was as if Anural’s revelation had viciously torn a blindfold from his eyes. That was a look with which he was intimately familiar. It was the same one he saw in his tired and shadowed eyes when he dared meet his own gaze in the mirror in an unguarded moment.

Fear.

Unrestrained, profound, bone-deep fear.

_No. This cannot be._

A horrified question froze him down to his bones.

_What has the Templar Order become?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have it. The moment that Cullen realises that all is not well in the Gallows. Does it fit Cullen’s character progression? Maybe. The events at this point in the story certainly made sense to me as a point where his naivety gets ripped away from him. Next step: realising there’s a problem with the Templar Order in Kirkwall (that doesn't match the idealised vision he holds) and especially Meredith. Unfortunately for the Kirkwall Circle, there are plenty of distractions and genuine threats that mean he believes Meredith's direction is mostly right until we get to the events of Act 3.
> 
> For the most part, my vision of the Gallows has been prison-like, but generally liveable. There is a darker side to the Gallows that would have been happening out of view, hidden by people like Alrik from the commanding officers. Until now, Cullen hasn't been aware of that.
> 
> There's a female templar in the Gallows courtyard in Act 2 who warns you not to disturb the recruits. Say hello to Ambris.


	21. By the Hand of a Templar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of those chapters that was difficult to work through and never felt quite right, hence the delay from my unofficial schedule. Somehow, it ended up really long anyway.

**Solace 9:34 Dragon**

_To ensure that no abominations or blood mages live, you must kill them all_. His own words, born out of hate and dread when his friends had lain butchered and broken in front of him. Faith in the inherent necessity, the _rightness_ of the Order was the guiding force that had held him together since those blood-filled days. He had been so certain then that his duty was to be the cold and merciless blade that excised corruption. But this was not Ferelden’s Circle. There were no abominations stalking the Gallows. There were only mages whom he was charged to protect. And had failed. In focusing so hard on only one aspect of duty, he had failed. With the revelations that had hit him full force, was the fear he had seen any surprise? His hand clenched where it supported him against the wall.

“Maker forgive me. I hold responsibility for this,” he whispered as the sound of screams ebbed for a moment. Only the echo of the past, for which he was grateful. Better not to return to a time when his own raw screams plagued the halls of a Circle.

A memory swam to the surface from the depths where he had hidden it. “Make her yours. Take her.” The echo of talons ghosted across his cheek. “Isn’t that what every templar desires?”

When he closed his eyes, the memory of the face looking back at him was marred by the angry red of a fresh sunburst brand. The memory morphed into Uldred's inhuman stare and the copper tang of blood magic. _I hold your mind in the palm of my hand. You would do whatever I want and there is_ nothing _you could do to stop me_. Bile burned the back of his throat as it morphed again into that of a demon with lambent purple eyes, forcing him back until there was nowhere to retreat. His clenched fist slammed into the wall to chase away the nauseating tangle of images as he cursed Alrik to the void.

He had believed there would be some reasonable explanation. Some logic to be found. Alrik had been a Knight-Lieutenant of the Templars, someone who should have been an example for what the Order represented. Now he had been confronted full force with a dark flaw at the Order’s heart. It left him sickened down to the core. It was true that he hadn’t liked or trusted Alrik. But to find that he had forced his own perversions on those unwilling or unable to protest was horrific. The man’s disgust at rumours of Cullen’s own ill-advised attraction was stunning hypocrisy.

“Knight-Captain.”

The polite acknowledgement and salutes echoed down the corridor ahead of the sound of booted feet. The footsteps drew a little closer before their measured pace faltered.

“Knight-Captain? Are you ill?” A trickle of worry wormed its way into the voice that sounded from a few paces behind him. “I can summon a healer…?”

There was another, longer pause and the sound of shuffling feet. Throughout, Cullen focused simply on controlling his tight breaths and racing heart. On the fact that he wasn’t trapped and powerless anymore. However much memory and the realisation of failure might be crushing him.

“If you need ly-” There was a grunt of pain from the speaker as he was stopped in the mid-sentence by his partner. Easy enough to misinterpret the hunched posture for withdrawal cramps.

Lyrium to muffle memories and dreams and to drown doubt. It would be a relief to go back to that crystalline certainty and clarity of purpose. _One I do not deserve for having been so blind._

With monumental effort, Cullen straightened. Unclenched his fist and lowered his hands to his side. Pulled a cloak of impassive professionalism back around himself. Knight-Captain Cullen of the Gallows, not Knight-Templar Cullen of Kinloch Hold. He could not afford to be that broken man. Not when he had a failure to correct. The weight of responsibility for hundreds of templars resettled on his shoulders. Responsibility for the mages too, he acknowledged grimly.

He turned smoothly to face the pair of concerned templars and nodded a belated acknowledgement to their greeting. If the taste of death still lingered on his tongue and the corridor walls still seemed to be pressing in on either side, well, it could be endured. He merited no less for his failings.

“I am well,” he responded smoothly as though he hadn’t been completely unresponsive moments ago. Every trace of internal conflict was hidden with the experience of years of practice. “Continue your patrol.”

With a final exchange of glances, they continued down the corridor. No doubt, the rumours that had followed him from Kinloch Hold would begin anew. At this particular moment, he didn’t especially care.

He flexed his fist, feeling the dull ache of his bruised knuckles with a kind of grim satisfaction. _I have a duty to fix this._ He determinedly pushed all the anxiety and horror to one side. _Whatever Alrik has done, the need for the Order remains. I must believe that there is more to us than fear, that we do_ some _good._ The ache in his chest eased slightly as his fractured spirit held. But the half-healed scars had broken open anew. And the cracks were a little deeper, a little longer. There was no avoiding that.

Orsino’s head poked curiously out into the corridor from the interview room. “What are you doing, Knight-Captain?” Behind the withering disdain there was a trace of concern he seemed unwilling to express. His eyes flicked up and down Cullen as he tried to find the cause of the sudden disappearance. “I won’t have you shirk this responsibility.”

Cullen pulled the illusion of composure a little tighter around himself. He walked steadily back towards Orsino, ruthlessly supressing the lingering symptoms of his panicked flight mere minutes ago. Before Orsino could open his mouth to demand an explanation, Cullen overrode him.

“First Enchanter, you told me once that you did not believe that the Order was the beacon of virtue that I claimed it to be.”

Orsino nodded as he stepped fully out into the corridor. "I did," he admitted warily. Whatever else he had meant to say died as he pursed his lips and watched Cullen cautiously.

Cullen ran a hand through his hair and tried to gather his thoughts. “I regret that I refused to listen at the time.” He took a breath and forged on before the words fled entirely. “Alrik and his men were under my command and I have no excuse for failing to see what they were doing. I will do what I can to rectify this, although I know it is too late for the victims.”

A whole host of expressions crossed Orsino’s face before he settled on doubt. “I would not expect such eloquence from a templar.”

Dismay twisted Cullen’s neutral expression into a frown before he could stop it. _I had hoped it was not too late to correct my failings_. The dismissive response crushed him a little further. “Templars are more than just the mindless warriors you see us as. I understand you may not accept my regrets, but-”

Orsino held up a hand in apology. “That was unkind of me. The sentiment is appreciated and, I will admit, unexpected.” His response was slow and careful, as if wasn't sure how to reply. “I will not place the blame entirely on your head. In the end, the responsibility for the actions of the templars in Kirkwall lies with another.”

“Perhaps. But I still had a responsibility.” He met Orsino’s gaze with an intense one of his own. “I will be more vigilant in future.”

No more wilful blindness. It wasn’t even close to remedying the dereliction of his duties, but it was a start.

Orsino couldn’t seem to decide on satisfaction or exasperation. “If that vigilance is anything like your vigilance towards us, I imagine that sentiment will serve us well.”

Corruption was one matter, but as horrific as it was, there was a deeper issue that still plagued him with uncertainty. Cullen scanned Orsino’s face for a sign of what he had seen in the mage’s eyes mere moments ago. Perhaps it had been an illusion, a reflection of the fear brought to the surface by unwelcome memories. Better for it to have been a symptom of his lingering weakness than truth.

“What do you fear, First Enchanter?”

Orsino frowned at the sudden change in direction. “Death. The usual.”

Cullen shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. Do you fear the Order?”

Orsino jerked imperceptibly and glanced back into the interview room. “We have more important issues to-”

“Please.” Cullen raised a hand and rested it on his breastplate, over the etched Sword of Mercy. Through the layers of steel and chainmail and padding, it was impossible to feel his heartbeat. His tone was calm and measured, but its rapid pace reflected the turmoil in his mind. “Do you fear us? Me?”

Orsino stared at him for long seconds. A mask fell away from his face. The expression left behind wasn’t fear, but suddenly the mage seemed to be slumped as though the entire weight of the Gallows rested on his shoulders. Another altogether different, but equally familiar feeling.

“Not you." He smoothly avoided the larger question. "I know you well enough to recognise that you truly believe in the Templar Order’s duty as protectors, not thugs in armour as many are. I've heard enough rumour to have an idea of what drives you.” He raised a hand to take in Cullen from bright steel armour to pristine templar robes. “But many will see only a Knight-Captain. A templar with the power of life and death over them. I know you would not abuse your position. Not every templar is so principled.”

Intended or not, Cullen saw an unspoken accusation behind the words. Every instance of wrongdoing might be assumed to take place with his or Meredith’s approval. But there was another aspect too. There was plenty that did take place with his support or by his hand. _Only what is necessary, surely?_

“I do what my duty as a templar requires of me.” The assertion seemed rather worthless given what had been revealed about Alrik.

“Certainly what you and Meredith believe it requires,” he replied non-committally. “I'm no templar to be able to judge that. But there are other reasons for fear. Imagine for a moment that I could render you defenceless whenever I willed. A mage might reasonably fear that such power could be misused. Especially when the wielder believes that they have divine right behind their actions.” Those words held particular weight after Anural’s revelations. Orsino returned Cullen’s searching look. “Much – I might dare to add – as you fear how magic may be misused.”

“I can recognise that there may be truth to your words, but that works both ways, First Enchanter.” Orsino’s expression darkened a touch before he inclined his head to acknowledge the retort. “Much of what you have said applies to magic. I have been given good reason to fear its misuse. You speak of divine right, but there are those who believe the magic they hold gives them a right of power over others.”

“Not all mages are like that,” Orsino responded defensively, “But I will allow that not all templars are like Alrik. Even in Kirkwall." He sighed and his shoulders slumped. "The faults of the few can taint how the many are seen. It has created a vast gulf between mages and templars that some seek to widen.”

It was easy to recognise the traces of melancholy that marked those final, quiet words. Orsino was clearly unwilling to speak further, and Cullen chose to avoid laying more weight on his shoulders. That feeling was one with which he was intimately familiar. Instead, he nodded his thanks.

"I asked a question." Cullen replied plainly. "I should not be surprised when the answer is not to my liking. I appreciate your honesty.”

There was a temptation to leap blindly to the defence of the Order. But it was clear that the image of the Order he had held since Honnleath was perhaps not as accurate as he had believed. It was a hard thing to recognise the flawed reality of a boyhood dream he had held for more than ten years. _Not entirely,_ he thought fervently, _there is a need for the Order. That has not changed._

Orsino cocked an eyebrow. “I suppose you’ll happily let mages wander the streets of Kirkwall now?”

A short chuckle of incredulous amusement broke out of Cullen before he could stop it. It was more a cough than a laugh, but it surprised Cullen as much as it did Orsino. The rawness of his revulsion had broken down a barrier he hadn't yet been able to rebuild.

He sobered quickly. “Whatever crimes have been revealed, magic still has a terrible capacity to do harm. I have a duty as a Templar to protect people from that, First Enchanter.” His lips quirked as he returned to a phrase he’d spoken to Orsino countless times. “I will follow my Knight-Commander’s orders.”

A ghost of a smirk hovered over Orsino’s lips, but the melancholy in his eyes seemed to return. The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. A mask slipped back into place over Orsino’s previously open expression. “Your apology doesn't absolve you of any responsibility. The perpetrators must face justice.”

Cullen’s brows lowered, and he shuttered away the last of his concerns. They could be addressed later. Now, there was work to be done.

“Have no concern on that account, First Enchanter. Ser Corin,” he barked out as he spotted the man approaching with another Tranquil in tow, “I have what I need. Follow me.”

“Ser.” He saluted in acknowledgement. Corin peeked curiously into interview room before trailing after Cullen. He might have suspicions, but he hadn't yet heard the full story.

“Knight-Captain, I suppose it's too much to ask that I might join you?” Orsino called out after Cullen.

“You’ve handled your responsibility, trust me to handle mine, First Enchanter.”

Orsino chuckled drily. "I believe we've spoken of trust - or the lack thereof - before." He saluted ironically. “Maker guide you.”

The interviews had been held on a reasonably quiet floor of the Gallows, the feel of magic dampened by distance. As they descended back down to the ground floor entrance, they were hit with the insistent hum of magic in the air. First, a floor of workshops, busy with mages practicing and going about their daily lives. The lyrium in his blood surged and scraped at raw nerves that had barely recovered. Then down another floor to the sprawling dormitories. Chattering apprentices were shepherded past by harried Enchanters and their always-present templar guardians.

Cullen flinched imperceptibly as an approaching apprentice conjured a dancing flame around his fingers. The flare of nearby magic caught him by surprise and he unthinkingly drew on the lyrium in his blood. The flame blinked out and the apprentice ducked his head guiltily. “Not in the corridors, apprentice.” He reprimanded the boy tightly as he passed. But Orsino’s words came back to him. _Imagine for a moment that I could render you defenceless whenever I willed. A mage might reasonably fear that such power could be misused._

“Maker grant me the wisdom to choose the right path.” He murmured in a hushed prayer.

With men he could trust at his side, he led the way to the isolated Tranquil floors. Countless floors above the Gallows’ ground level entrances, those Tranquil who chose to stay in the Circle lived in their own world, with only a token Templar presence. The mages feared what the Tranquil represented and were more than happy that they were housed so high above, out of view. To the templars, they were the perfect residents of a Circle. Peaceful, respectful and compliant. But no one liked being up there, amongst all the eerily silent Tranquil. Perhaps it wasn't too hard to believe that Alrik’s actions had escaped notice.

Under Anural’s direction, they identified another of the mages upon whom Alrik had forced Tranquility. A quiet elf, who served with the invisible army that kept the Gallows running. Cullen was left baffled all over again that he had passed unnoticed and unremarked.

Others were gathered in a systematic sweep until a small cluster of six Tranquil stood in the austere common area of their floor. It was a fraction of the total number that inhabited the Gallows, but even a single unlawful Tranquil was too much.

With his reinforcements as witnesses, Cullen steeled himself to listen to each Tranquil’s tale. Hearing six variations of how Alrik had broken his vows time and again was not a pleasant experience. Somehow it was all made worse by being spoken in that emotionless, compassionless monotone. The Tranquil did not lie. They all knew it. But there was still more than one incredulous look exchanged between his reinforcements.

The inadequate justifications were varied, whether it was for some perceived slight, or an infraction that might well have earned them the brand from Meredith. In each case, he had claimed the right to pass a sentence that was permitted only to the highest authority in a Circle. Alrik had preached of a Templar’s duty and the Maker’s will. All the while betraying it all. _Maker forbid this is what the Order stands for now._

Cullen prayed that was the small group of Tranquil was the last they would find of Alrik’s misdeeds. Until he was calmly informed that there would have been others, gone from the Circle in mysterious circumstances when suspicions grew. One or two others who had been subject to Alrik’s advances too. By all accounts, Alrik had been doing this for years, subtly enough that no one had known. Or no one had dared to admit to knowledge.

When the final Tranquil finished speaking, every one of his attendant reinforcements avoided his gaze. Their reasons for discomfort might differ from person to person, but they all knew what the tales meant. Alrik’s actions had been entirely unsanctioned, that much was blindingly obvious. Had Alrik still lived, he would have faced the full force of Chantry law.

But Alrik was dead. That left only his followers to face justice. Cullen marched into the barracks at the head of two squads. The room was almost quiet and peaceful. A few were still awake. The rest slept until their duties began in the early hours of the evening. That peace didn't last long. Those few who weren't asleep shot to attention as the march of booted feet filled the room. Deep sleepers were quickly nudged awake by their squad mates.

Cullen scanned the barracks for a moment before raising his voice to carry to every corner the room. “Every man under Ser Alrik’s command will assemble in the north courtyard.” He let that order settle in for a moment. “Fifteen minutes.”

There were a few sharp intakes of breath from the front of the room. Fifteen minutes would barely give any of them time to armour themselves. The Knights-Corporal were roused equally abruptly from their quarters on the upper floors of Templar Hall. As if they knew or suspected what had brought their Knight-Captain to their doors, they didn't dare question the order.

Fifteen minutes later, the final stragglers quickly slotted themselves into position in the ranks. Close to seventy templars stood to attention under the blazing sunshine that filled the north courtyard. They were completely and utterly silent under Cullen’s watchful eye, with not a single templar willing to single themselves out by moving. He left them to stew there and began a reluctant walk to Meredith’s office.

Cullen recounted every detail to her with habitual crisp efficiency. Each word tasted like ash in his mouth. There was a long silence after he finished his report. When Meredith finally responded, every word dripped with acid anger.

“One occasion of defiance was enough to condemn him. But six? This is _my_ Circle. _My_ word is law here.” She punctuated each sharp pronouncement with a stabbing finger in the direction of the Circle. “I will not have anyone usurp that authority.” She stood up from her desk and began to pace the length of her office. Her brow furrowed as she thought aloud. “It is a shame that Orsino was present. But there may yet be a benefit. Perhaps we might have less complaints from him now that he has seen what the decisions of an unlawful templar truly look like.”

Privately, Cullen found it unlikely. The details might differ, but Orsino’s convictions were as unyielding as any templar’s. The revelation had horrified Orsino as much as it had Cullen. With his cooperation, they might ensure that nothing similar happened again.

He nodded neutrally. “Less conflict would certainly make my duties easier.” He turned his head to keep track of Meredith’s restless pacing. “I have gathered Alrik’s men. What are your orders, Knight-Commander?”

“We need unity, Cullen. I need to know that every templar in the Gallows will unswervingly follow my command.” Her pacing stopped as it brought her level with Cullen. A hand clenched by her side. “Bring these traitors to me.”

The north courtyard was a furnace by the time Cullen returned. Noon sunshine pounded down onto the bare heads of the gathered ranks. By now, even the cool flow of lyrium through their blood wouldn’t have been enough to fend off the heat. There were soft rustles as the gathered ranks did their best to watch his return without actually moving. They all knew that their Knight-Lieutenant was dead in mysterious circumstances. Only a few might have a guess as to why they had been gathered.

“Knight-Corporal Monteith. Knights-Templar Kalavan, Harrol, Rowan, Garrick and Tate.” The barked names echoed back from the high walls. The named templars’ apprehensive gulps were visible from where Cullen stood.  “Step forwards.” When they had detached themselves from their positions in the ranks, Cullen spent a moment looking over the rest. Impossible to say if others had known. “Knight-Corporal Lucien and Knight-Lieutenant Halle will be transferred to replace Knight-Corporal Monteith and Ser Alrik, effective immediately. I expect nothing but exemplary behaviour. Dismissed.”

Cullen had never seen parade ranks disperse quite so quickly or cleanly. No more than a minute and the massed ranks of templars had disappeared back to the barracks. 

It was a testament to how closely the mages observed their guardians that the Tranquil had been able to name every one of those who had helped force Tranquility upon them. Not many, considering the scale, but including those who had died with Alrik, it was more than enough.

“Knight-Captain,” hazarded Knight-Corporal Monteith, “Might I ask what this is about?”

“I imagine you know exactly what this is about.” With a gesture, he called forwards his reinforcements. “With the Knight-Commander’s authority, you are all under arrest for gross misconduct.”

“Ser-” he began to protest,

Cullen cut him off. “Don’t bother trying to proclaim your innocence.” His lip curled in disgust. “Your actions were entirely unsanctioned and a disgrace to your position. I’m struggling to believe you even have a right to call yourself a templar.”

“Then I must to speak to the Knight-Commander, Ser,” he demanded stiffly. Beside him, the rigid Knights-Templar looked decidedly less enthusiastic at the idea.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement of the request. “And the Knight-Commander would like to speak to you.”

Monteith suddenly looked less confident. Cullen doubted the man would find what he was looking for by pleading with the Knight-Commander.

They were escorted under guard through the main thoroughfares of Templar Hall. Cullen might never find the full extent of the corruption, but rumour would hopefully be enough to make others more reluctant to follow Alrik’s example.

They were led into the meeting room adjoining the commanding officers’ corridor and arrayed for inspection. Meredith stalked into the room to stand by Cullen’s side. “So. These are the traitors who have schemed behind my back.” She pinned Monteith with a particularly icy stare. “You admit to having aided Ser Alrik in concealing information and subjecting mages to the Rite of Tranquility without my authority?”

The Knight-Corporal drew himself up in anger, fully prepared for his moment in front of the Knight-Commander. “Knight-Captain Cullen has barely been in Kirkwall three years. He doesn’t know the Gallows,” he spat. “What evidence could he have of misconduct?”

He seemed to realise his mistake almost as soon as he spoke. Not so long ago, more than one templar had faced Meredith’s wrath for spreading rumours related to Cullen’s past in Kinloch Hold. Meredith held up a hand sharply to cut off Monteith’s defence. He froze and pulled himself to attention.

“Slander your Knight-Captain’s integrity and you slander mine. His evidence is overwhelming. The Tranquil. Do not. Lie.” She bit out each word with exacting precision. “I find that vastly preferable to this duplicity. I will ask again. Do you admit to the charges?”

He deflated under her stare. “Yes, Knight-Commander.”

“Knight-Captain. Your recommendation, please,” she requested of Cullen lightly.

“Dishonourable discharge.” He replied coldly as he stared unblinking at the templars in front of him. “They must face the law without the Order’s protection.”

She turned back to the suddenly pale Knight-Corporal. “I quite agree. Dishonourable discharge for you and your associates.”

“Wait!” He blurted out in a panic. “Surely you want the information I have on Knight-Lieutenant Alrik’s activities?”

Meredith spotted Cullen’s sudden shift in posture and turned to meet his gaze. She tilted her head to hear his murmured words.

“The damage is done and Alrik is dead. Nonetheless, I would be feel more at ease knowing how far this conspiracy went.”

“Your recommendation is noted. But I want these traitors out of my sight.”

“A few days, Knight-Commander. Enough time for me to question them fully. Then I will gladly see them off the island myself.”

She inclined her head in agreement. “You have three days.” She turned her attention back over to the men in front of her and raised her voice. “You will be confined to Templar Hall’s cells pending the completion of Knight-Captain Cullen’s investigation. I expect you to co-operate. Fully. Or I may be forced to consider a harsher sentence.” She called out for Cullen’s waiting reinforcements to shackle the ashen templars. “Get them out of my sight.”

With them gone, her sharp focus turned back to Cullen. “I trust you to handle this quickly so we might return to our actual duties.”

“I would be more than happy to, Knight-Commander,” Cullen replied with satisfaction.

“I need more men with your unswerving loyalty, Cullen.”

“I am simply doing my duty, Knight-Commander,” he responded evenly. She stood silent for a drawn-out minute before Cullen dared to cautiously ask, “If I may escort them to the cells, Knight-Commander?”

Her distant eyes focused back on him. “Of course. Dismissed.”

~~~~

Templar Hall's cells were nowhere near as expansive as the Circle's holding cells. They certainly weren't as crowded. Non-mage prisoners were easier to hold than an apostate, even when those prisoners were templars. That didn't prevent the looks of trepidation each templar had for their cell as they were unceremoniously ushered in, stripped of their arms and armour. The Chantry sunburst embroidered in bright thread on their robes that declared their status seemed somehow inappropriate. Cullen closed each cell door closed with satisfying finality. The detainees would receive lyrium and food. But on a quarter dose, they would be held at the very edges of withdrawal. Their stay would be an unpleasant taste of their near future.

Their pleas for a lighter sentence had fallen on deaf ears. His and Meredith’s reasoning might have differed, but they had agreed on the crucial point. These men weren't worthy to hold a position in the Templar Order any more. A knight of the Templar Order, ordained in the Maker's service, should have known better. Those who so severely betrayed their vows deserved nothing less than expulsion.

A harried templar rushed down the corridor, chased by a belligerent voice that echoed down after him. He saluted hurriedly. “Knight-Captain. Guard Captain Vallen from the Kirkwall Guard is here to see ‘any of the blighted commanding officers in this place’.” He shrugged an apology, “Her words, Ser.”

A sudden headache flashed into life behind Cullen’s eyes to join the unease that already filled him. It seemed that this was another day destined for chaos. He pinched the bridge of his nose and raised a despairing hand. “You let her follow you down into the cells?”

The templar looked apologetic. “She was very insistent, Knight-Captain.”

“Maker’s breath. You’re a Knight of the Templar Order, not a child.” He sighed in exasperation. “Fine. The Knight-Commander won’t take the meeting. I will speak to the Guard Captain in my office. Have her wait outside until I join you.” He stopped the templar with a look. “Keep an eye on her. She can’t just wander freely around the Gallows.”

The templar hurried back in the direction of the cells’ entrance. His words to the Guard Captain weren’t audible, but judging by the reduction in tone, she had been slightly placated.

Cullen exchanged a few hushed words with the cell guards on protocols for their new inmates. It wasn’t often that a templar was incarcerated for such severe crimes. The few occupied cells held those confined for more minor infractions. A quick check over the cells to ensure they were secure and he felt that the Guard Captain had stewed long enough.

Sure enough, by the time he had returned to his office, she looked livid. Her guide had managed to enlist the help of another templar. Now both stood rigidly on either side of Cullen’s office door whilst she berated them with enough skill to pass as a templar training officer. Cullen managed to catch the tail end of her tirade.

“…interfering arrogant Templars.” She paused for a huff of irritation. “Maker. You think you own this entire city.”

Despite the rant, the pair seemed to be coping well enough now that they had their orders. Eyes straight ahead and fixed unblinking on the opposite wall, postures an exemplary pose of attention. The words washing right off them only seemed to amplify her irritation.

“Guard Captain Vallen,” he raised his voice to head her off before she could resume her tirade. “How can the Order be of service?”

She scowled at his smooth courtesy as he opened the door into his office. She began speaking before she had even stepped through the open door. “Knight-Captain. What happened to the ‘spirit of cooperation’?”

Cullen sat himself down behind his desk and covered a few confidential reports before responding. He raised an eyebrow as she refused the offered seat and leaned back in his chair.

“I could ask the same of you.” He replied coolly, “Knight-Corporal Emeric was found dead in the streets of Lowtown last week.” He lifted the report and dropped it in front of her with a slap. She spared a short glance for it before looking back at him. “When I sent templars to investigate, they found signs of blood magic that your men claimed wasn’t in evidence. Hardly a glowing account of your dependability.”

She scowled at him and planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t try and deflect. Not two weeks after you dropped off those Carta thugs and generously declared your support for city authority, I find that one of your men kidnapped and tortured Qunari delegates in Darktown.”

Cullen’s eyes widened in shock as he leaned forwards, “Excuse me?” He had hoped for some distraction from his uncertainty and wavering convictions. This was not what he had expected.

“I know the Templars have a history of interfering in Kirkwall’s business,” she berated him, “but surely you have a bit more sense than this. The last thing we need is another reason for the Qunari to hate us.”

“The Qunari may be heathens, but I assure you, no one in the Order would authorise such actions,” he snapped in response.

She looked at him sceptically. “The dead Qunari and body of a templar who was seen leading extremists say otherwise.”

“Maker.” He whispered with a sinking stomach. Gwinn’s concerns had been rising over the past few months, but surely she wouldn’t be so foolish. He surged up from his seat. Alrik’s associates would still be here when he got back. They could wait for a few days. “Thank you for informing me, Guard Captain Vallen. I will handle this.” He called out to one of the templars waiting outside his door, “Inform Knight-Corporal Orrick and his squad that they are to meet me at the docks immediately. They should be available.” He turned back to the Guard-Captain, “If you would show me the location of this dead templar?”

“I can,” she replied dubiously. “You don’t need all the backup for one dead templar, do you?”

He smiled neutrally. “Standard protocol.”

It wasn’t entirely untrue. Any senior officer above Knight-Corporal would merit an escort. But Darktown was a different matter. Strongly suspected to be the heart of the Mage Underground, a Knight-Captain and the bare minimum escort he preferred would have made a tempting target. The Guard Captain certainly didn’t need to know that. A show of templar strength and condemnation for this act wouldn’t go amiss either.

She bowed shortly and held out a hand. “After you, Knight-Captain.”

Knight-Corporal Orrick’s squad were fully armed and prepared by the time they arrived at the Gallows’ docks. The frosty looks they exchanged with the Guard Captain were a testament to their worsening relationship with the Guard. Near every templar would know what had happened to Emeric, as they heard about every templar who died at the hands of a blood mage. Rumour had twisted his death to be entirely the fault of the Guard for failing to recognise blood magic.

Cullen paused before boarding the ferry and turned back to face the Guard Captain. “This is the domain of city authority.” He reiterated as much for her benefit as that of his escort. “But I will handle the dead templar.”

Their journey to Darktown was conducted in frosty silence. The Guard Captain seemed unwilling to discuss anything further until they arrived, and so Cullen resigned himself to wait and assess the situation for himself.

At this point, Cullen had spent more time in Darktown than he would ever have expected. It was gratifying to see that the Templars weren’t the only unpopular authority figures there. The residents had never quite forgiven the City Guard for sealing them out of Kirkwall during the Blight. Non-existent patrols and even more criminal activity than Lowtown didn’t help matters. It made it impossible to tell whether the veiled resentment was reserved for him and his escort, or the Guard Captain leading the way. He held back a biting observation on dereliction of duty. The guard had less than a quarter the numbers of the Order in Kirkwall and many times the number of people to protect. It was a thankless task to match his own. At least evidence suggested that the Guard had improved under her leadership.

The route they were led down was through one of the more remote corners of Darktown. This far out, the passages and chambers weren’t packed with ex-Fereldans, still struggling to make lives for themselves. Despite initial appearances, the area wasn’t entirely abandoned. There was a trail worn into the engrained dust in the floor that suggested people had begun to pass through the area more frequently.

He ran his eyes over the complex knotwork of a Coterie symbol marking the wall. An area that had been claimed by the criminal organisation then, as much of Darktown was rumoured to be. The symbols marked a few more passages. Then, with a frown, he noted where a rough approximation of the Chantry sunburst had been crudely marked in paint over the top. It seemed the area had been claimed by more recent inhabitants.

“The Guard don’t patrol down here,” he remarked with feigned nonchalance, “How did you find these extremists of yours?” _If she knew they existed and didn’t inform the Chantry earlier…_

“I have informants,” she sent an amused glance back in his direction, “Much as you do, I’m sure.” She raised a hand to indicate a rough-hewn doorway. “This way.”

Cullen stiffened as he entered the room. He exchanged a veiled glance with Orrick beside him. The faintest traces of magic still lingered in the air. The few Guard scattered about were naturally oblivious. Ever so subtly, the remainder of his escort distributed themselves into positions that covered every entrance to the poorly-lit chamber. Orrick planted himself steadily behind Cullen’s shoulder. It seemed unlikely that Chantry supporters would have counted apostates amongst their number. That meant the mage assailants might still be loose somewhere. Apostates. Or, given what little he had been told, it could well have been a Qunari Saarebas. They still didn't know how many mages the Qunari might be keeping hidden in their compound.

The chamber itself was as nondescript as the rest of Darktown. Dried pools of blood still marred the dusty stone. Aside from that, the only evidence of any kind of conflict was a single body stretched out on the floor. A dusty length of cloth covered the corpse, making identification impossible.

The Guard Captain strode over to stand by the lone body. “The Grand Cleric and Viscount have already been informed. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from one or both shortly. We’ve already dealt with the dead Qunari and extremists. I just need you to clean up your mess.”

Cullen grimaced at that. The Viscount wouldn’t have the courage to offer anything other than the mildest of rebukes. But it was impossible to predict how her Grace might react.

He crouched by the body and flipped over the corner covering the dead templar’s face. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or angry. The dead templar was definitely one of Knight-Lieutenant Gwinn’s men. That made his next stop quite clear.

He pulled the cloth back completely. Mundane wounds had killed the templar. It was impossible to tell whether the trace of magic was related to his death or not.

“Who killed him?”

“Confidential. You’d have to ask the Viscount.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed at the evasive response and he stood to face the Guard Captain directly. “Accidental passers-by? Qunari come to retrieve their kidnapped fellows?”

“I really couldn’t say.” She bared her teeth in a smile that wasn’t even vaguely friendly. “Just know that it was by the request of the Viscount.”

“There were mages on one or both sides. The Templar Order has authority.”

She looked vaguely surprised but managed to cover the expression quickly and raised an eyebrow. “So that the Chantry can cover this up? You’ve already acknowledged I have jurisdiction here.”

“Cooperation would be in all our best interests.” He sighed, “Crimes involving magic are best handled by templars.” Maker knew he’d told her that often enough to go hoarse. Clearly the recent disaster with Emeric hadn’t been enough to convince the Guard of that fact.

“Stick to the Circle. We can manage perfectly well,” she replied stiffly. Her response echoed her reaction on every other occasion that templar assistance might have been advisable. “The Viscount has already decided how to handle the situation.” She waved a hand in the direction of the dead body. “All I need is for you to deal with this and keep control of your templars.”

“Fine,” he replied with a touch of irritation. “You know where to find us should you need our assistance.”

“That I do.” She turned away as Cullen called forwards a pair of his men to wrap the body.

“Take the body to Templar Hall. Ser Orrick, you may return with them. Give me two of your men, I still have business in the city.”

Orrick opened his mouth to protest, “Ser-”

Cullen cut him off with a hand. “I’ll be heading to Hightown. A full escort isn’t necessary.”

The last thing any of them needed was to raise concerns further by marching a full squad into the Chantry. Maker forbid this led to conflict with the Qunari.

~~~~

The chantry was humming with activity for the evening service by the time he arrived. Countless numbers of Hightown’s residents filled the expansive space, overshadowed by the towering statue of Andraste. As conspicuous as the glinting jewellery of Hightown’s finest was, the templars stationed at regular intervals along the walls in perfectly polished armour outshone them. A not-so-subtle show of strength that Gwinn had intended to ease concerns about the Qunari. Cullen now felt the uncomfortable suspicion that it had only worsened matters.

He strode smoothly through the crowds of faithful as they shifted to allow him past. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of Gwinn’s men detach himself from his post by a wall to intercept him.

The templar pointed up to one of the overhanging balconies. “If you’re looking for Knight-Lieutenant Gwinn, Ser, she’s up there.”

Cullen nodded his thanks and climbed the stairs up to the indicated balcony. Gwinn herself stood unobtrusively to one side as a Mother prepared for the upcoming service. He caught her eye and indicated her to one side. She excused herself politely and joined Cullen in an isolated alcove out of hearing of the Chantry folk.

“Knight-Captain.” Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Our monthly meeting isn’t for another two weeks.”

“I would certainly have preferred not to be required to come out here. Why must I hear from an outside source that one of the men under your command kidnapped and killed Qunari?” Cullen snapped in a restrained undertone.

She scowled. “Let me guess. Ser Varnell? I knew I should have given him something to keep him busy after he was dismissed from his last assignment.”

Cullen nodded the affirmative. “If you knew, you should have done something. Instead, he got himself killed and may have pushed us closer to open conflict.”

She spread her hands helplessly. “I didn’t know, Ser. His voice may have been the loudest, but he’s not the only one here with concerns.”

“The Knight-Commander gives you autonomy here, Ser Gwinn. Don’t betray that trust.”

“I welcome the Knight-Commander to come and see what we deal with here, Ser.” She stabbed a finger somewhere in the direction of the docks. “Those Qunari heathens aren’t going to stay hidden in their compound forever.”

A Mother raised an eyebrow as she passed the alcove and caught the tail end of the conversation. She glided smoothly past, pointedly ignoring their hushed conversation with a cool smile. They both bowed deferentially with polite greetings and waited for her to pass before continuing.

“Mind yourself, Ser Gwinn.” He reprimanded her sharply as he turned back, “Her Grace has made it quite clear that we are not to provoke the Qunari in any way.”

Gwinn reined back her simmering anger slightly. “My apologies, Ser. I’ll speak to my men.” Her tone darkened slightly. “Frankly, it’s not them you have to worry about. I’ve overheard plenty of talk.”

“Leave that to the Grand Cleric. Focus on your subordinates.”

“As you order, Ser.” She saluted. Her expression still hid some simmering discontent, but Cullen let it pass. She glanced in the direction the Mother had taken. “If I may, Ser, the service is about to begin.”

Cullen gestured in the direction of the Chantry’s main floor, “By all means. Dismissed.”

He followed behind her and then through the crowds to slip into a spare space near the back of the Chantry hall just as the service began. The handful of people gathered there – Lowtown residents that had been pushed to the back by Hightowners – nodded in respect as he settled into place. He might not be subtle in his bright templar regalia, but it was certainly better than services in Templar Hall. Even where he wasn’t required to lead a service, he was always at the front, beside Mother Anastase and Meredith. This relative anonymity was a rare time to simply focus on his own faith.

This latest crisis had served as a distraction, if not one he would have welcomed. But now, with the most urgent issue addressed, the nauseating uncertainty that had crippled him this morning had begun to ooze back up to the surface. Perhaps there was some direction to be found in the certainty of faith.

The attendees beside him followed the verses from ornate books with well-worn pages. He closed his eyes and chanted the familiar words by heart. The wavering pitch of the attendees beside him gradually faded from his consciousness as he focused on simply trying to find a clear path from the words.

When he opened his eyes at the end of the service, he didn’t feel any more at ease. The verses had seemed like a rebuke that cut right to his core. A testament to his failings. Around him, the attendees began to disperse. Cullen stayed where he had placed himself at the beginning, eyes fixed on the statue of Andraste and the flickering candles at her feet. Clusters of people gathered and began to chatter as the solemn service transitioned back into Kirkwall’s daily life. The respectful space they left for him seemed undeserved.

“You seem troubled, child,” a serene voice spoke from behind.

Cullen turned with a deep bow, hand to heart, and reprimanded himself internally for failing to hear her approach. “My apologies, your Grace. Please, do not let me trouble you.”

She smiled gently. “Templars deserve care as much as the rest of the Maker’s children.” A small frown creased her brow as she looked down towards the towering statue of Andraste, eyes passing over the statue-like templar guards and dispersing people. “Perhaps I can guess what brought you here today. It was a terrible thing that young templar did. It is not our place to interfere.” She studied him for a moment longer. “But the Qunari are not the source of that troubled frown of yours.”

“They are not,” he admitted. Deference forced him to explain further. “I find myself struggling to find clarity.”

“We are all faced with a crisis of faith at some point in life. Consider yourself lucky you face it now, rather than when you’re as old and grey as I am.”

 _I’d be lucky to still retain my mind,_ he thought with a trace of regret. Even without the danger of death, his service to the Maker would never be as long as hers. “I have stumbled across an injustice for which I may hold responsibility, simply by having failed to recognise it.”

“You cannot be held responsible for the actions of others.” She rested a hand on his arm, the gentle touch barely felt through the cloth and chainmail. “If it is clarity you seek, I imagine the first step is to address this injustice.” She smiled wryly, “Are you not the ‘champions of the just’?”

 _That is precisely the problem. I fear we, I, may have stumbled in that role._ He didn't dare express that doubt aloud. Instead, he bowed again. “Thank you, your Grace.”

She smiled in response. “Maker guide you, child.”

He stood in the peace of the chantry for a moment longer after she left, trying to recover some sense of clarity that even the reassuring hum of lyrium couldn't provide. When he finally shook himself out of his haze of thought, that clarity still eluded him. _How nice it would be to have the certainty I held three years ago. Even one week ago._ His escort fell into place behind him as he left the Chantry, courteously giving him space when they noticed his continuing distraction. A clear path might not be as obvious as it had been, but one thing remained true. He had a duty to serve. With Alrik dead, the true culprit couldn't answer, but Cullen planned to do his level best to ensure that some justice could still be provided. That thought seemed to smooth out some of his uncertainty. _A duty to serve. The Order and my charges._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point, Cullen and Meredith’s background reasoning behind decisions starts to diverge, but the decisions themselves are often still consistent. Cullen’s opinion on magic being dangerous will not change, so he would approve of an increase in security. What does change is that he begins to see mages as more than living weapons who may turn on you without provocation or warning.
> 
> I feel bad for not giving Emeric more page time, but it would have derailed the story arc in the past chapters. My pro-templar sympathies are given another reason to creep out with his quest. The Guard didn’t exactly shower themselves in glory here. And Aveline never shows any regret for being proven wrong.
> 
> Aveline is the type who could walk all over most people. Call it the arrogance of command or templar superiority or Cullen’s just self-assured, but that doesn't fit for him. If he can deal with Meredith on a daily basis, he can certainly hold his own against Aveline.


	22. A Mystery Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conspiracy in the Gallows is brought to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't normally have anything done so quickly but most of this had been waiting around for a while. It was originally intended to be integrated within the upcoming chapter, but it works better alone. Next chapters will get back into canon events.

**Solace 9:34 Dragon**

It was impossible for Cullen to even consider sleep that night. Not with the thought of what might have happened whilst he remained wilfully blind. With the last of his outstanding tasks complete for the day, he entered the Circle accompanied by the sound of the midnight bell.

With measured steps, he paced through every floor of the Circle. First the public floors. The library, refectories, and training halls. All peaceful during curfew. Then the two floors of apprentice dormitories. Paired templars patrolled constantly through the corridors, vigilant for any sign of raiders. A tired looking Knight-Corporal saluted and provided a hushed report that was gratifyingly routine. He reassured Cullen with intense conviction that the templars under his command were accounted for at all times. They were banned from entering the dormitories without good reason just as much as the apprentices were banned from the corridors during curfew. His quiet disgust at the implication seemed reassuringly genuine.

Then floor after floor housing Harrowed mages in rising levels of seniority, interspersed with laboratories and workshops. Each floor’s officers had much the same to report. The climb through the Gallows was accompanied by a muted rattle of well-oiled metal as the portcullises that sealed off the stairwells were unsealed and then locked behind him. It should have been a reassuring reminder of the Circle’s security, but the Circle didn’t seem to be safe from either internal or external threats. Yet.

A slight frown crossed his face as he spotted a familiar face stationed at an intersection of the Senior mages’ floor. It had been a long time since the night he had caught the illicit liaison between the man and a mage in a darkened corridor. Punishments had become more severe, and even the foolhardiest didn’t dare risk the consequences. Or it stayed behind closed doors. He shuddered at that thought. Too close to what Alrik had done. Regardless, the man seemed to do his best to project the perfect image of a vigilant templar every time he had seen his Knight-Captain since then.

Cullen’s mind flashed back to small signs from the past three years that might hold much darker undertones. Someone patrolling alone when all Knights-Templar were assigned to patrols in pairs. Someone off station. Someone testing a door. The moments were thankfully rare, and he had reprimanded them on every occasion. But now any such occurrences would come under much closer scrutiny. _In the end, I must rely on trust_ , he mused darkly, _I cannot be everywhere_.

He passed the First Enchanter’s door with particularly silent footsteps and a muffled cough of discomfort. Maker knew he wished he had a bit more resilience to the First Enchanter’s unexpected jibes. Apparently, three years of knowing the mage had made his weaknesses blindingly obvious to Orsino. Or the mage was simply the only one who had the boldness to point them out.

His patrol through the Tranquil floors was the slowest and most painstaking. Knight-Lieutenant Halle had been informed categorically that all Alrik’s squads were banned from assignments on the floor. Despite that, he inspected the token watch stationed there with suspicion.

Even with the time it took to complete the exhaustive patrol, it still left hours yet until dawn. Sleep still seemed impossible, even with the fatigue lurking behind his eyes. But there was one thing he could do to pass the time. He began the painstaking descent back to Templar Hall.

The archives were unnaturally cold throughout the year. At night, the residual summer heat that warmed the rest of the Gallows barely took the edge off the chill in the archives. It was a small reminder of a Ferelden that grew more distant in his memory each year. Only regular letters from Mia – often unanswered, for the only news he had to share would have been an unnecessary burden on them – kept any kind of tenuous connection to the country of his birth. As it was, the frigid and oppressive archives, thick with the smell of aging parchment, were a less pleasant reminder of a different, colder tower.

The templars guarding the door had barely spared a glance for him as he entered. His odd hours were hardly news to the templars in Kirkwall. It just highlighted how simple it would be for any trusted officer to enter the archives and interfere with the records.

Without the assistance of the Tranquil who manned the archives during the day, it had been a time-consuming task to gather what he needed. He was glad that the Tranquil maintained the archives so efficiently, or the task would have been impossible. Now a whole selection of records lay scattered across the table in front of him. A glowstone in warm orange illuminated page after page of neatly scribed information stretching back years. If the corruption extended any further than those templars already identified, perhaps evidence of it would be found here.

The first record on the pile was that of Karl Thekla. His breath caught as he read the first pages, signed off by familiar and long dead names from Ferelden. He skimmed those pages without really reading the words. Karl had been transferred to Kirkwall in 9:28 Dragon for his skill in the School of Creation, a field in which the Kirkwall Circle lacked expertise. Then the detail increased to that typical of Kirkwall’s thorough records. He had been polite but had chafed at the increase in restrictions from Kinloch Hold to the Gallows. The number of correspondences he sent out had begun to increase. Despite rumour, templars had neither the time nor the desire to read mages’ letters and so the content was unknown.

Then the record suddenly finished with a curt note that Karl had been made Tranquil, signed in a poor approximation of Meredith’s hand. No record of an investigation that might have taken place prior to the authorisation of the Rite, nor even a hint of why. No record of his transfer to the Chantry either, but Tranquil were not subject to the scrutiny that a mage would have been. There was no ruling against their leaving a Circle. Despite that, he knew Karl had been transferred by Alrik. _So, perhaps Karl was another victim, forced to transfer when suspicions began to rise? It’s certainly easy enough to convince a Tranquil to comply._

The next two he pulled forwards were vaguely familiar. Records of Theanne and Jensen’s lives in the Circle. A quick scan showed that there was nothing more to be found in Theanne’s records than he had gathered the first time. Judging by where the records cut off, she had become Tranquil some time in 9:30 Dragon, months before Cullen’s arrival in Kirkwall.

He flipped over to Jensen’s records. Jensen’s death had been marked in 9:29 Dragon. It certainly matched up to Anural’s suggestion that Theanne had become suspicious following the man’s death.

He pulled over a more detailed report of Jensen’s death, a document he had not examined at the time. The death had been deemed a suicide. He had somehow stolen a standard-issue templar blade. That in itself was odd. A mage hardly needed mundane weapons and mages were not permitted inside Templar Hall, let alone the armoury. Only the First Enchanter was seen in Templar Hall regularly, and that only because his office was located for easy access to the Gallows’ commanding officers.

Despite that, the investigating templar had determined that no further enquiries were necessary. And the name signed at the bottom of the report … Cullen’s heart leapt. Knight-Corporal Monteith. Another connection to Alrik, albeit indirect.

Dead by a blade from the templar armoury. That was a chilling thought.  He turned again to Jensen’s records. Apart from the record of his death, there was nothing out of the ordinary. No complaints registered by the mage, and no reprimands or penalties recorded. No suggestion that a templar might have taken issue with him.

A dark thought crossed his mind. Anural claimed there had been misconduct in Jensen’s death. Misconduct that Alrik had known about. That much seemed feasible given that one of his men had investigated the death. With the lack of any suspicious findings, it seemed likely he had covered up something more incriminating on behalf of a ‘friend’. A templar whose blade, accidentally or otherwise, had been the cause of Jensen’s death. Yet all evidence seemed to suggest that Alrik was not the friendly type. He would have had little motivation to cover up suspicious circumstances in a death.

At some point he began an uncharacteristic association with Bardel that sounded very little like actual friendship and culminated in his fellow Knight-Lieutenant’s death. A death that linked back to a mage who had almost certainly been unlawfully made Tranquil. Alrik’s association with Bardel suddenly seemed laden with much darker undertones. _Maker. Was this blackmail?_

Bardel had been assigned to Kirkwall proper, he wouldn’t have had the ability to influence an investigation in the Circle. But Alrik would have, as a Circle Knight-Lieutenant. No Circle could ignore the death of a mage. The investigation might have seen Bardel stripped of his position if his involvement came to light. With that leverage, Alrik could have convinced Bardel to assist in covering up his own misdeeds. It didn’t explain the reasons behind Bardel or Alrik’s deaths, but it was certainly a start.

He paused and drummed his fingers against the table. Except there was a common link. He strongly suspected that Anders and Hawke had had some link to Alrik’s death. Fereldans both. He knew Hawke had never been in the Circle Tower, but Anders had been a resident and would have known Karl. He flicked back to Karl’s records and steeled himself to read them in detail. A triumphant smile crossed his face. Karl had been known to associate with Anders whilst the two were apprentices.

So perhaps the motive became vengeance. A merciful death for a Tranquil, followed by revenge three years later. He hissed in frustration. And still nothing that could be done about it thanks to the immunity granted to Grey Warden mages. Not without irrefutable proof that he had murdered a Tranquil and multiple templars, or that he was a maleficar. Sentiment for the Wardens was still at a high point, particularly amongst Fereldans. Despite his wish to forget that part of his life, he shared a fraction of that sentiment. The Wardens had prevented his whole family from being wiped out. And the healer of Darktown would have been popular amongst the Fereldan refugees even without his status as a Warden. Add in the suspicion that Darktown was the heart of Mage Underground activity, and it became an incredibly dangerous prospect. He didn’t want to throw away templar lives without firm reason. Certainly not on Alrik’s behalf.

He sighed and set that thought to one side. They were closing in on the Mage Underground. Once the more immediate threat was addressed, they could focus on others. Maker willing, Anders would not be a danger in the short term. For now, he would have to focus on crimes within the Circle. He gathered up the records and returned them to their shelves. There was more than enough information to lead his interrogation of Monteith now.

The satisfaction of revealing a bit more of a three-year mystery was darkened by his own doubts. Now not only were Alrik and his followers implicated, but so was Ser Bardel. If he truly had been linked to the death of a mage, accidental or otherwise, what did that say about the Templars’ ability to act as protectors? Never mind his own frustration at having to let a possible apostate with clear anti-Templar sentiment wander the city.

His visit to the chantry extended far longer than was typical, until the first traces of activity began to bring the hall back to life. The clarity he continued to pray for was still not forthcoming. As he rose smoothly from his kneeling position on the cold floor, affirmed moved between the sconces on the walls, filling the chantry with torchlight. They dipped their heads in acknowledgement as he passed.

A Sister frowned in concern at his distraction when he collected his freshly-filled box of lyrium vials. She glanced to both sides before lowering her voice to a whisper. “You've never asked for it, but, given your past, Revered Mother Neive of Greenfell gave you blanket approval for double lyrium rations, Knight-Captain. That approval holds here, should you need it.”

That startled Cullen out of his daze. He’d had no idea that Greenfell’s Mother had thought him so compromised as to need a permanent increase in his dosage.

“That won’t be necessary. Thank you.” The Sister flinched back at the anger in his growled response and the slight disgusted curl of his lip.

He glanced down at the box. One week’s supply, drawn out to last for two weeks. Despite Mother Neive’s – or anyone in Ferelden’s – lack of faith in his ability to recover from the trauma of Kinloch Hold. Meredith would have known about the approval for additional lyrium. No doubt the authorisation had arrived with his transfer documents and reports from Ferelden’s Circle. She had known and had faith in him despite the slight and all she had read. He couldn’t betray that faith now. Somehow, that small reminder of his life three years ago served to steady him. Grand Cleric Elthina had been right. He knew what his next steps should be. The only difficulty was in accepting that he had slipped. He could still correct his failings. _I found certainty after that torment. I can find it now._

~~~~

The cell door clattered open. A templar blinked rapidly as the brighter light of the corridor filled his cell. Cullen raised an eyebrow as he inspected the man before him. Templar Hall’s cells were stifling in summer. The man’s occasional shivers had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature. If he was reacting to a lack of lyrium already, he was almost certainly an addict.

“Knight-Corporal Monteith.”

Despite a day in the cells, the man drew himself to a semblance of attention, brushing down the dust on his robes. “Knight-Captain.”

Cullen couldn’t hold back a disgusted curl of his lip as he looked the templar up and down. “You admitted to assisting the late Knight-Lieutenant Alrik in forcing Tranquility upon mages resident in the Kirkwall Circle of Magi.”

The man nodded. “I did, Ser.”

“The reasons seem to be rather varied. What justification did he provide?”

Monteith shrugged expressively. “There were wrongs that needed to be righted. Mages should know better than to resist the Maker’s will.”

“And you believe that you have a right to speak for the Maker’s will?” Cullen asked incredulously. He raised a hand to cut off any defence. “Clearly you were more deluded than I thought. We are guardians, not...” he searched for a word for a moment, “not despots.”

“We have dominance over the mages. Who am I to argue with the teachings of Andraste?”

“Dominance that is exercised only in pursuit of our duties, not indiscriminately for your own gratification or for petty reprisals. Or did the Chantry Mothers miss that aspect of your lessons?” Cullen shook his head. “I did not come to debate the Chant. Did you cover up suspicious circumstances related to the death of a mage named Jensen five years ago?”

Monteith looked genuinely speechless for a moment. “How-” He covered his surprise by folding his hands behind his back and sharpening his posture. “There was nothing suspicious.”

“A mage dies by a supposedly stolen templar blade and the investigation is closed without any suggestion of suspicious circumstances? It seems unlikely. I was informed that the mage Theanne was made Tranquil following accusations she made against Alrik.”

Monteith’s eyes narrowed. “I remember Theanne. She hadn’t any right to accuse a Knight-Lieutenant that way.”

“Let me propose a theory.” Cullen took a step closer until he stood at the cell’s threshold, blocking the light and forcing Monteith a pace back. Even then, Cullen could not force himself to step fully into that enclosed space. “Theanne discovers that Alrik has covered up the death of an associate of hers. He becomes concerned that she may cause trouble for him and so forces Tranquility upon her. Or perhaps it was simply an excuse for his own perversions. Regardless. Following my investigation, Theanne is transferred to conceal his crime. Months later, Enchanter Anural also begins her own investigations. Once again, Alrik unlawfully uses the Rite. An event, might I add, in which you were firmly identified to have participated. Crime after crime, all stemming from your cover up.” Cullen cocked his head as a trace of sarcasm crept into his tone. “Perhaps the tale is familiar?”

Monteith had begun to look rather pale. In combination with the clammy sweat, it cast his face in a sickly light. “It may be slightly familiar.”

“How did Ser Bardel tie into this? Was it related to Jensen’s death?”

“I don’t know the whole story. I know that Bardel made a mistake.  Knight-Lieutenant Alrik told me to close the investigation as quickly as possible. He held that over Bardel’s head. Got him to do his dirty work.”

“I will assume his death in the Kirkwall Chantry was a part of this.”

“That’s right, Ser. Knight-Lieutenant Alrik caught a mage conspiring to escape. He, ah, decided to deal with it himself.” Monteith’s eyes dropped guiltily and he inspected his trembling hands as though they were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the cell. Cullen’s disgusted frown deepened a little further as he concluded that the man had been present for the whole affair. “The Tranquil was used as bait. Bardel was sent to trap whoever it was that the mage had been writing to. He thought it was odd that the orders didn't come directly from the Knight-Commander, but he didn't dare question it too much.”

“A mage conspiring to escape is a serious threat to the Circle’s security. There would have been no reason to conceal that. Why not just hand the information directly to the Knight-Commander?”

“I really could not say, Knight-Captain. Alrik had no need to explain himself to me, I just followed his orders.” He squinted in Cullen’s direction. “Maybe he thought it would show you up if he caught an apostate conspiring to escape where you didn’t.”

“And Theanne. Where is she now?”

“Maker. I don’t have a clue. Alrik convinced her to move to Ansburg.” He shrugged again. “Probably dead on the side of the road somewhere. I’m sure Alrik got Bardel to deal with the transfer.”

“Could you identify those who handled the transfer?”

“Like I said, Ser, I don’t know details, I just did what Alrik needed. I would assume that they were the same men who died with him in the chantry. Not a chance that someone like Bardel would risk other people finding out what he’d got himself into.”

Cullen nodded absently. Perhaps this was as far as Alrik's crimes had gone. It was more than enough to condemn him many times over.

Monteith plastered on a tentative smile. “I’ve co-operated and answered all your questions, Knight-Captain. What happens now?”

“What happens?” Cullen responded with a note of incredulity. “Your cooperation is appreciated, but the sentence is unchanged.”

“All over some blighted mages? You’ve made your point, surely the Knight-Commander won’t actually strip me of my commission.”

“The mages are our charges, Knight-Corporal Monteith,” Cullen responded icily, “With how severely you broke your vows, your service as a Templar cannot continue.”

“Void take you,” he swore. “All the years I’ve served must mean something.”

Cullen closed the cell door to the sound of his continued cursing. It seemed that the mystery was as clear as it would ever be made. After three years, Bardel’s men had been long since been reassigned. There was no way of finding out in whom he might have confided. Near everyone who had participated had ended up dead. It would have to serve as justice.

A few hours later, it didn't matter if there was anything more to be found. With his preliminary report delivered to Meredith, she refused to wait any longer. Not when Monteith admitted to participating in the coercion of a superior officer and hiding information that directly related to the Circle’s security. By the end of the day, Monteith and his fellows were stripped of their status and every templar in the Gallows knew the consequences of treachery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gone slightly overboard plotting out the final stages of the missing mage mystery. Six major players. Two deaths. Multiple coverups. Blackmail. Illegal tranquility. Three different people investigating at separate times. This whole long-winded mystery could be a story of its own. Hope it stayed coherent.
> 
> Karls's story has been difficult to work around. It is canon that Alrik gets a Knight-Lieutenant named Bardel to deal with Karl, but it's hard to interpret the background to that story based on the letter that mentions that. All these gaps/inconsistencies would be the problem with trying to build a canon-compliant story around minor characters...


	23. Followers of the Qun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions between the Chantry and Qunari reach a critical point.

**August 9:34 Dragon**

A week after Alrik’s death, and progress was finally being made in the underground network. It was frustratingly slow progress, but progress nonetheless. Now, more than half of the passages had been collapsed. Whilst Forthrin still brought his regular updates, reports of new holes in their security had slowed to a trickle.

And yet, despite all their work and all their security measures, there had been another escape. The mage had disappeared somewhere in the maze of Darktown, just like all the others. It could only raise their suspicions higher. The escapes could not be continuing now without help from someone within the Order. But each escapee simply led them one step closer to the underground.

It would have been good news, were it not for the fact that Templar patrols had been attacked on multiple occasions by the Mage Underground's supporters. Most recently, one of the Circle escapees had been found down in the Darktown sewers. A blood mage, despite all that Orsino claimed. After an intense battle, the battered templars had been ambushed as they returned from their assignment. Fresh from conflict with a blood mage, the ambush had almost been a massacre. Now only three templars from the squad lay recovering in the infirmary. The others rested by the Maker’s side.

A week after that, and Emeric’s murderer was found. Another blood mage in Darktown’s sewers, this one not even a native Kirkwaller. It didn’t speak well for Kirkwall that so many maleficar were attracted to the city.

Cullen attended the site of the blood mage’s death himself. A dank chamber in the depths of Darktown, furnished in a warped parody of a comfortable merchant or noble’s home. Documents and notes were scattered on every surface, detailing years of twisted experiments. The culprit had been particularly deranged, even for a blood mage. Cullen had the Order seize it all to be destroyed. Magic like this was almost the precise definition of what made a maleficar. Nothing good could come of it.

There wasn’t much satisfaction to be had in finding Emeric’s killer. Hawke had not deserved the cruel death inflicted upon her mother. No one did. And yet people didn't trust the Order enough to let them stop tragedies like this from ever happening. Something that was precisely their calling. _Where did we go wrong?_ He couldn’t help but think as they returned to the Gallows, followed by resentful stares.

It felt wrong to be penning a final report categorically listing reasons to recommend Hawke to be seized as an apostate. He strongly suspected her involvement in Alrik's death. She had done them all a service there. But there had been too many occasions where her path had intersected with outcroppings of magical activity. Too many whispers and rumours from informants. An apostate could not be allowed to roam free, however safe she might appear to be. Should Meredith approve, she would be brought to the Circle. And the Order would lose an ally. Something that was vanishingly rare with anti-Templar sentiment running high in the wake of the Mage Underground’s influence. An impossible decision he was glad to leave to his Knight-Commander.

His monthly meeting with Gwinn in Kirkwall’s chantry passed uneventfully. He was almost ready to believe that the recent spate of crises might calm down. Almost.

~~~~

Knight-Corporal Annlise held them together that first day as they faced the horrors of their captivity. She forced them to ignore the unbearable screams that drifted down from the Harrowing chamber. Even when they went on longer than seemed physically possible. She led them through drills, even unarmed as they were. Urged them to return to their mediation and mental focus exercises, and to conserve what little lyrium was left humming through their blood. She knew the withdrawal they would inevitably face, even if they did not. All so that they would be prepared for the eventual arrival of reinforcements.

No more than a few days, she said. Enough time for word to get out. For the rest to regroup. No one dared suggest that the encroaching Blight might make that a faint hope. Or worse, that they were the only ones left alive and in control of their own minds.

When the first drained bodies were dumped unceremoniously in the antechamber, she kept calm and faced down Uldred with confident authority. The discordant laugh as he mocked her cool defiance grated against Cullen’s fraying nerves.

Then, at Uldred’s command, the arm of the abomination by his side pierced through the barrier and grabbed her by the throat. It hauled her through the barrier as though she wasn't armoured in half her own weight of plate and chainmail. She choked and scrabbled uselessly at the thing’s warped flesh as it lifted her off the ground until her feet dangled in the air. Annlise was an elegant master with the blade. Against the abomination, it didn't matter at all.

Beval and Farris reached for her with desperate shouts. Uldred spared a disdainful glance for them and brought their movements to an abrupt stop as a copper tang filled the air. Their eyes bulged, and weak whimpers slipped out of them as they strained futilely against blood magic’s hold on their minds. The abomination’s laugh sounded clotted and distorted as the demon inhabiting what had once been a mage’s body forced out the laboured sound.

Uldred stepped up close and stared at Annlise for a long moment with unfeeling eyes. “I do so appreciate you volunteering to be the first templar to donate to the cause.” He drew a cruel blade and pulled the edge against a palm already scarred with half-healed scabs. Blood welled up and dripped to join the smeared trails that stained the flagstones. “The lyrium in you should be a great help to my endeavours.”

He squeezed his hand into a fist, blood oozing between his fingers. Annlise shrieked in piercing agony as bands of force formed and her armour crumpled about her. The antechamber echoed with brittle snaps as her bones were crushed in the steel grip of armour and magic. Farris and Beval strained even harder and Cullen leapt forwards with a cry of horror.

Another wave of his hand and the abomination drew a talon almost delicately down her arm. Her pauldron and vambrace clattered to the floor, split by the unnaturally sharp edge to leave her skin bared. Suddenly the armour that had been left to them seemed no better than if they had been stripped bare.

The abomination released its grip and Annlise drifted up until she was suspended head first over the floor, still whimpering in agony. Uldred drew the blade lightly over her dangling arm and smiled beatifically as the first beads of blood welled up. Instead of dripping to the floor, the rivulet of blood floated into a disconcertingly serene orbit around his raised hand.

“You Templars. So brave when you think you hold the power.” Uldred wiggled his fingers as the rivulet danced between them. “What good does all that training and lyrium and steel do against power like _this_?”

He left them then as they desperately scrabbled to find a weakness in the enclosures that held them so that they might help Annlise. A thick streamer of glistening blood trailed like a chain connecting her to Uldred and whatever horrific experiments he conducted in the Harrowing chamber. Soon after, the shrieks of pain started up again. They weren’t quite sufficient to drown out Annlise’s ragged sobs as the life slowly drained from her shattered body.

Without her steadying presence, Farris descended into panic. He pounded at the barrier until his fists were bloodied and Beval was forced to restrain him. Cullen felt worse than helpless, confined across the opposite side of the room.

Annlise slowly drifted into unconsciousness as her heart weakened. The gentle flow of blood slowly reduced to a trickle. Uldred returned to draw another gentle gash over an exposed arm so bloodless and crushed that it could have belonged to one of the corpses. Then another. Until her arm was a ragged mess of cuts. All accompanied by a melody of suffering that drifted down to them through the open door. Cullen’s head throbbed with waves of agony as he tried and failed time and again to draw on the lyrium in his blood and dispel the barrier. At some point, after another drained and mutilated body joined the others in the room, he collapsed to his hands and knees on the floor. He dashed away hot tears that splashed onto the flagstones beneath him.

She died with a sigh as her heart gave out. The spell that kept her suspended gave out seconds later and she dropped to the floor with a clatter. It wasn’t the quick and violent death granted to the others as they had fought their way through the tower. And it was all the worse for it.

He whispered a prayer that she would find peace by the Maker’s side with ears covered to try and block out the sounds from above. Farris’ desperate pleas for mercy had long since faded to terrified whimpers that lasted for hours.

The next day - with the veil torn and gaping from Uldred’s experiments, and their bodies brought low by the first debilitating pangs of _need -_ the first demons came to whisper in his friends’ ears. And again, Cullen was left to watch helplessly as their minds frayed and the piles of bodies kept growing.

Cullen lurched awake with a gasp, cold sweat prickling on his skin despite the humid heat. His thin blanket lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of his bead. The agonisingly familiar scene of the antechamber was replaced by the gratifyingly mundane reality of his austere quarters. Sleep could not be avoided forever, as much as he might prefer it.

 _Helplessness. Little wonder that this theme has returned to me time and again,_ he thought as he sat up and rested a weary head in his hands.

With little hope of further sleep that night, Cullen levered himself out of bed and pulled on fresh robes. He strode through mostly-empty hallways to the infirmary to check on the recovering templars. The infirmary was dark and peaceful in the early hours, with neat rows of pristine beds stretching off into the gloom. A handful of the beds were occupied. Too many of those by templars injured in the line of duty. A lone healer nodded off in a corner, notionally watchful in case his patients’ conditions deteriorated.

With easy access to magical healing, injured or ill templars were better off than others in the same situation might have been. But seeing their fading bruises and healing wounds, any tolerance or understanding Cullen might have held for the Mage Underground sympathisers had long since disappeared. He rubbed absently at the mostly healed burn scar on his arm. Not the first scar he had earned, and certainly not the last. Sadly, the worst scars were not physical. And despite the guilt he felt for having thrown them into the situations that brought them to the infirmary, he would have no choice but to do it time and again.

There was a snort from the other end of the infirmary as the healer jerked out of his doze. He glanced quickly over his charges before spotting Cullen where he stood just inside the infirmary’s entrance. The man eased himself quietly out of his chair and stole over to Cullen with silent footsteps.

“They are improved since your last visit, Knight-Captain,” he murmured, “But there really is no need for you to visit so regularly every time someone is injured.”

“It is often my orders that put them here. I have a duty to ensure they are recovering well.”

Memories of dead templar bodies flickered through his mind and he closed his eyes against them. _It should be me, lying there._

The healer gave him an unimpressed look. “And the Knight-Commander as well, but you don’t see her up at all hours. You have a duty to tend to your own health too. Don’t think we healers haven’t noticed how poorly you look after yourself.”

Cullen sighed in exasperation and flicked a glance towards the healer’s stern look. “I am uninjured.”

“Or so you claim. Frankly, I imagine you’d say the same with your arm falling off.” He paused and directed an experienced look over Cullen’s tired face. “In matters of health, I have authority. It’s hours before dawn. Sleep.”

“Fine,” he replied grudgingly to placate the healer. Sometimes, they could be unpleasantly observant. “Keep me informed of their progress. Good night.”

Cullen swept from the room before yet another healer tried to offer him sleeping draughts. That was little better than hiding behind lyrium.

He had just placed his hand on the door handle to his quarters when sharp footsteps approached from the top of the corridor.

“Knight-Captain, I was hoping I might find you awake,” a relieved voice called out quietly.

Cullen turned from his doorway and faced the approaching Knight-Corporal. “What is it?”

“A Brother from the Kirkwall chantry just arrived at the main gate in a state of panic with a message for the Knight-Commander. He claims that there’s an emergency in the chantry, Ser.”

Cullen’s eyes widened. “An emergency? Have him brought to one of the meeting rooms. I’ll wake the Knight-Commander immediately.”

He knocked firmly on the Knight-Commander’s door and waited. There was some muffled rustling from inside before the door cracked open to reveal her. If she had been woken from sleep, it was impossible to tell.

“An urgent message has arrived from the Kirkwall chantry, Knight-Commander.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then we must not delay.”

Moments later found them both sitting opposite a Brother in rumpled robes. His hands fiddled restlessly with a loose thread on his sleeve as he recounted his message. A Mother was dead, killed by a Qunari assassin. The Viscount’s own son – a recent convert to the Qun – had been murdered by unidentified extremists with the intention of provoking conflict. Cullen listened to the muddled words with a sinking stomach. Little hope of keeping the fragile peace now.

For Meredith, it was a call to action. Five squads – a small army – were roused from the barracks and sent ahead at her order in response to the news. At Cullen’s insistence, Knight-Lieutenant Ambris led the contingent. She at least could be trusted to tend to the chantry where Gwinn had failed.

He and Meredith paused only to arm and armour themselves before she ordered another two to join his and Meredith’s journey to Hightown. Any sign of the criminal elements that usually plagued the docks and Lowtown at night was completely absent as they marched through the moonlit streets.

By the time they reached Hightown, the faint touches of dawn had just begun to scrape the highest towers. There were stirrings of life as servants darted to and from the houses of the nobility. They made themselves scarce at the sight of so many armed warriors.

The whole plaza in front of the chantry was deathly silent and uncharacteristically empty, sealed off by vigilant templar sentries. The heavy doors into the chantry were guarded by yet more, faces hidden and inscrutable behind their helms. The doors were pushed open and he entered at Meredith’s side.

Usually the high ceiling would have reflected quiet conversation and strains of the chant. Today, they were greeted by anxious whispering from gathered chantry folk and the muted sounds of men in armour. There was hardly a single patch of wall that didn’t have a templar stationed in front. Any serenity offered by the sacred space had disappeared behind their battle-ready stances.

A loose ring of templars isolated a slumped body at the far end of the main hall. A Chantry Mother, an arrow fletched in bright Qunari red protruding from her chest and another through the centre of her forehead. There was no attempt at subtlety there.

The Grand Cleric herself stood on the dais underneath Andraste’s serene gaze. Her furrowed brow was obvious even from the far end of the main hall as she spoke with the Viscount, a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder.

To one side, Knight-Lieutenant Gwinn stood under close guard. Intentional or otherwise, her negligence had allowed the Viscount’s own murdered son to be displayed as bait to incite a war. And then, had allowed a Qunari assassin to enter the heart of the chantry. The murders in the chantry three years ago had been fault enough. Two more such failures, following in quick succession, was unforgivable.

Meredith gathered the whole scene in a quick sweeping look. Her eyes narrowed as they focused on the slumped body at the far end of the hall.

“So, the Qunari are looking to start a war?”

“We cannot know their goals, Knight-Commander,” Cullen replied. “But it is hard to imagine what else they aimed to achieve.”

Elthina spotted their arrival from her commanding view of the chantry. With a final comforting word for the Viscount, she glided down the hallway towards them. She acknowledged their respectful bows with a nod of her head before inspecting the silent ranks of templars with a critical eye.

“You did not need so many, Meredith.”

Meredith’s raised hand indicated the body. “This is an act of war, your Grace. A Qunari assassin entered the Chantry itself.”

“You’re certain it was the Qunari, your Grace?” Cullen questioned deferentially, “It’s not unreasonable to assume that someone intended to frame them, much as your messenger said they did with the Viscount’s son.”

“Absolutely certain. I was there.”

Meredith’s eyes widened. “If this assassin had wanted, he might have killed you. Kirkwall cannot lose its Grand Cleric.”

“I was never in any danger. I am quite sure of it.” Elthina cast a glance of combined disapproval and disappointment back towards the body. “Mother Petrice erred in her judgement. Whether at the hands of the Qunari or a court of law, the Maker saw that justice was done.”

“This cannot go unanswered, your Grace,” Meredith responded evenly, “It sets a dangerous precedent.”

“It is not our place to interfere,” Elthina insisted. “I have no doubt you stand ready, Meredith, but we should not give the people of Kirkwall more reason to be afraid. Dismiss these fine men of yours.”

Meredith stewed for a moment before she bowed tersely. “Yes, your Grace.”

She raised her voice to echo through the chantry and dismiss all but the bare minimum of templars. Squad after squad marched out in neat steel ranks, making further discussion all but impossible until the last of them had left. With them gone, the chantry almost returned to its former peace.

Elthina pulled Meredith to one side and began a hushed conversation. Judging by Meredith’s developing scowl, she was not happy to hear what Elthina had to say.

Cullen strode down to the opposite end of the hall where Ambris stood in quiet conversation with the remaining Knights-Corporal. She glanced up and saluted as Cullen approached.

“Andraste preserve us, Knight-Captain,” she began with a shake of her head. “I knew that relationships with the Qunari were deteriorating, but I had no idea it was this bad.”

“The Grand Cleric claims the situation is still under control. It’s out of our hands.” He frowned over towards where Gwinn shifted from foot to foot. “It seems a position leading the chantry garrison has become available. The Knight-Commander has agreed that the role may be more suited to your expertise. The position is yours should you agree.”

A pleased smile broke her grave expression. “I’ve spent more than enough time training recruits. It’s not as interesting as the Circle, but I’ll gladly take it. Thank you, Ser.”

“We need to _apologise_?!”

Cullen and Ambris winced in unison as Meredith's voice reached a painfully high pitch. The nearby templars and affirmed – respectfully removing the bodies and clearing up evidence – twitched in sympathy. They poorly disguised that they were straining to hear every word passing between Meredith and the Grand Cleric.

Cullen inclined his head in Ambris’ direction with the trace of a wry smile. “Excuse me.”

He strode back towards where Meredith fumed. “Do you require anything of me, Knight-Commander?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “We are required to escort her Grace to the Qunari compound.”

Cullen glanced in startled surprise at Elthina. “With all due respect, is that wise, your Grace? The Qunari have made no secret of their distaste for the Chantry.”

“This is a test of our faith, not of our strength in arms. I must reassure them that the Chantry has no harmful intentions.” Her expression grew troubled. “Quite enough lives were lost in Exalted Marches against the Qunari in the past.”

“We have our orders, Cullen. I’m temporarily assigning an additional squad to the chantry. The other will join us.”

“No,” Elthina corrected her sharply, “You, Ser Cullen, and two others will be more than sufficient.”

Cullen hesitated, caught between two commands he could not refuse. Meredith’s expression darkened further, but she nodded her assent at Cullen.

He saluted with a touch of relief. “At your order, your Grace, Knight-Commander.”

By the time they left the chantry, the plaza was fully lit by daylight. Sentries at the entrances still blocked off access and a handful of early risers milled uncertainly just beyond their cordon. Elthina's disapproving glance at Meredith was impossible to miss. With a few quiet words, the Grand Cleric dismissed the sentries back to the Gallows before raising her voice to reassure the small confused crowd.

But to no one’s surprise but Elthina’s, they were turned away at the compound’s gate by a Qunari sentry who towered over every one of them. The Qunari spent a long moment looking down at her and then at the small escort before he folded his arms. “There is nothing more to be said. The Arishok will accept no more insults from the bas of this corrupt city.” His response was a deep rumble that dripped with disdain.

He refused any further attempts to draw him into conversation, eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Finally, Elthina’s shoulders slumped and she stepped back into the busy streets.

“Come. It is in the Maker’s hands now.”

Cullen paused a moment before turning away from the sealed gates. He sized up the guard and the parts of the compound visible through the gates with a long calculating look that he didn’t bother to hide.

The Qunari’s copper eyes glittered as they dropped to meet his and his lip curled, as if he could read the stratagems that buzzed through Cullen’s mind. Cullen stared back calmly. He was quite confident he could handle the warrior alone. Whether any of the city guard could cope was another matter entirely.

Their progress down back up to Hightown was a slow one, and Cullen chafed at the pace. Even knowing that Elthina often passed through Kirkwall with no more than a single templar as escort, he could not help but scan every street and passing citizen for threats. A habit acquired after Kinloch Hold that had never quite faded. His preference would have been for a quick and efficient journey that minimised any risks. What little he had seen of the compound had only heightened his concern. And if not a Qunari risk, then one of their sympathisers, or the Mage Underground and _their_ sympathisers, or any other person that had issue with the Chantry. His own life didn't hold even half as much value as that of the Grand Cleric herself.

With a tilt of her head, Meredith indicated for Cullen to fall back and the other two templars to take their place at Elthina’s shoulders.

“I find that I am not surprised the Qunari rejected an offer of peaceful communication,” remarked Meredith in an undertone. “After desecrating the chantry, what is one more crime against the Maker to them? Be prepared. We may be called to act, whatever her Grace wishes.”

“You saw their compound?” Cullen replied in an equally hushed tone. “It was quieter than it should have been. I suspect they may be tiring of peace.”

She nodded slowly. “I believe it is time I spoke to the Viscount. If we are required to defend this city, we must be fully informed of what we might face.”

She slid smoothly back into place at Elthina’s shoulder without a further word. The Grand Cleric was understandably keen for peace. She would not be pleased to know that the Templars were planning for war.

~~~~

The interior of the Viscount’s Keep was elegant and airy, a dramatic contrast to the brutal architecture of Lowtown or the Gallows. But underneath the fine clothing and highborn manners, the people that filled the building were no different to Lowtown’s residents. The same veiled glances followed Cullen and Meredith as they strode through the grand entrance hall. Meredith might be a reasonably common sight in the Keep. Cullen less so. Both together was a rare event that had every eye watching them. The stares might be covered by ingratiating smiles, but the back of his neck still itched as he passed them.

If the guardsmen stationed throughout felt the same, it was impossible to tell behind their helms. Their heads were the only ones that didn’t turn to watch Meredith forge her way through the hall. With a Knight-Commander and Knight-Captain there to see them, rivalry meant they tried to match or better the discipline of a templar, all while feigning indifference.

Meredith led the way right up to the Viscount’s office before being stopped by his seneschal. The man slid smoothly into Meredith’s path to block her before she could raise her hand and push open the door. His eyes tracked over Meredith and Cullen without a change in expression. Cullen stood back and folded his arms. Seneschal Bran was a consummate politician. Dealing with him and those like him was a task that Cullen gladly left to others.

“Knight-Commander Meredith. Knight-Captain Cullen. Always a pleasure to have such esteemed templar visitors.” His neutral tone skilfully skirted the border between civility and sarcasm. “However, the Viscount is otherwise engaged.”

“Whatever he’s doing now, he can make time,” Meredith snapped.

The seneschal kneaded his forehead and looked almost pained as he responded. “I hesitate to ask what latest threat you have invented to waste the time and resources of this office.”

Cullen’s resolution to leave the conversation to Meredith broke and he snorted with dry amusement. “We would not dare waste the time of such an important man as yourself. But the Qunari are unlikely to sit peacefully in their compound for much longer.”

“By all means, watch Kirkwall burn down around you.” Meredith continued with deceptive lightness. “I assure you, the Order will be quite safe in the Gallows.”

The seneschal rolled his eyes. “Your Order has caused quite enough trouble with the Qunari. Regardless, the Llomerryn Accords prevent-” he began reciting before being cut off.

“Ser Varnell acted without my sanction. And I imagine the Qunari value pieces of paper much less than you do, Seneschal Bran.” She paused meaningfully. “The viscount recognises where power lies in Kirkwall. Perhaps you might follow his example.”

His sigh was long and expressive. “I do recall seeing a request for our reports on the Qunari some time ago from you, Knight-Captain. It must have simply slipped my mind.” He met Cullen’s flat look with a raised eyebrow before turning his attention back to Meredith. “But I suppose at this point it can’t do any more harm for you to look.” A sweep of his arm indicated his own office, tucked away in a corner.

He strode into a corner of the impeccably organised office and hefted a box with a grunt of effort. The pile of documents was dumped into a messy pile on a table off to one side. “Diplomatic communications. Reports. Maps. You’re welcome to it all.”

He picked up a stack of his own work and sat himself behind his desk, to all intents and purposes utterly indifferent to their continued presence.

“The assistance is greatly appreciated, seneschal,” Cullen thanked him with a touch of sarcasm.

He joined Meredith in surveying the pile. In between routine communications, there was little of value apart from the maps and paltry intelligence reports. Only a vague estimate of forces, with a suggestion that some had defected or fled over the course of years. Absolutely no estimate on the number of apostate mages. It was barely worth the trouble.

His own knowledge of the Qunari was little better. It was hardly a surprise, but a chantry-endorsed library held very little relating to the philosophies of the Qun. He might recognise a handful of words of Qunlat, but that didn't give much insight into the potential tactics and intentions of a Qunari general. _I hope all those military strategy books have more value than simply passing the time._

Meredith looked mildly disgusted with the scant information in front of her. “The Qunari have been here three years, and this is all you have?”

The seneschal looked up briefly. “That would mean acknowledging there was a threat. We hardly plan on waging a war with our guests.”

Cullen unfolded a map and stretched it over the table. He tapped where the Viscount’s Keep was marked. “Impossible to know what they would plan, but the Keep seems an obvious target.”

Meredith nodded and traced the complex web of routes that led from the docks to Hightown. “We could not defend the entirety of Kirkwall, even if we mobilised every templar and mage in the Circle.”

There was a bigger issue, of course. The isolation of the Gallows was as much a weakness as a strength. “Their compound gives them easy access to the docks. They could prevent us from entering the city.” He paused for a moment and overlaid a rough recollection of Forthrin’s complex map of the tunnel network. Not the first time he had been grateful for the mental exercises from his time as a recruit. “Should we be cut off, we might enter the city through Darktown, where the underground network connects to the Gallows.” He pointed out guesses of the relevant locations. The map of Darktown was hardly thorough. “Not all the passages are sealed yet.”

Meredith followed his train of thought. “A small force to retake the docks should they seize it. Then we may enter the city more easily.”

Cullen smiled in satisfaction. “Precisely.”

She scanned an estimate of the Qunari forces and growled in irritation. “Anywhere between one hundred and three hundred warriors? Hardly precise. No matter, I am confident we have the skill to match them.”

“And nothing on the number of Saarebas.”

“Untrained Qunari apostates are no threat to us. They are little more than hedge mages. Easy enough for even a single templar to handle.”

Cullen nodded in tentative acknowledgement. Untrained perhaps, but an unprepared templar might still be caught by surprise by even the most poorly trained mage. An estimate of numbers would be preferable.

They moved on to further plans, ignoring the alternately exasperated and bored glances that the seneschal threw their way. He might have been mistaken, but Meredith seemed vaguely impressed when they finished. Certainly nothing in the records and history sent with him from Kinloch Hold would have shown strategic training. It was hardly necessary for a Knight-Templar in a Circle. It was gratifying to know that there was some benefit to be had from sleepless nights.

The seneschal didn’t bother to hide his pleasure that they were finally leaving him in peace. He bid an unenthusiastic farewell and closed his door sharply behind them as they left.

A quick stop in the chantry to fully brief Ambris extended longer than it should have whilst Meredith grilled her on her expectations of the new Knight-Lieutenant of the Kirkwall chantry. By the time they felt able to return to the Gallows, they had spent near a full day in Kirkwall proper.

There was never really an off-duty moment for a commanding officer. Their descent through Hightown and into Lowtown was accompanied by a discussion of all the concerns that would have taken up a typical day in the Circle. Preparations for an apprentice approaching her Harrowing. Observations and concerns from reports on Circle inhabitants. Progress of the recruit cohorts. Proposals for promoting a new Knight-Lieutenant to replace Knight-Lieutenant Halle – now permanently assigned to the Circle – in leading the second Kirkwall company.

By the time they reached Lowtown, Cullen’s planned list of actions for the next day had finally solidified. The rest of their journey continued in the silence of Kirkwall’s night time streets, broken only by the muted rattle of their movements.

Despite the buzz of plans in his mind, he gradually became aware of something off in their surroundings. It shouldn’t have been surprising that Lowtown was quiet. But there was something ... wrong with the silence. Cullen’s skin prickled in sudden apprehension. It was a kind of silence with which he had grown familiar. The false calm before the screams started again. His roving eyes caught furtive motion, hidden in the shadows of the alleys. A trickle of adrenaline wiped away the first hints of fatigue.

Meredith spotted it a scant few seconds after Cullen did. She glanced sidelong at him and raised her eyebrows. Cullen raised a hand to feign scratching his chin, flashing subdued signals of estimated numbers. Quick flicks of his eyes indicated where he had spotted danger. Meredith gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and maintained their brisk pace. It would be impossible to notify the squad behind them without also warning the potential assailants. He would simply have to hope that they were as observant.

They walked a reasonable distance further before the furtive movements become more purposeful. A glance down the street showed that they were quickly approaching a more secluded area. Cullen glanced again at Meredith and gently inclined his head in the direction of the darkened courtyard. His hand clenched, itching for the hilt of his sword.

Despite fully expecting it, the attack began with sudden explosive force. The lyrium in his blood seemed to tug in every direction as magical attacks flared up from all around. Cullen’s hands leapt eagerly to his weapons and he tugged on lyrium to enforce a denial of magic. The air nearly buzzed as the other templars followed suit. He raised his shield at almost the same moment as a shard of ice came whistling out of one of the high windows to shatter against his shield. Small flecks of ice scattered in every direction. One scratched a superficial cut on his cheekbone that he barely felt. The mages had placed themselves well, perfectly aware that a templar’s abilities were limited in range. He gritted his teeth against the low-lying fear brought on by the pull of magic and turned sharply to face the alleys from where assailants would no doubt emerge.

Beside him, Meredith had drawn her greatsword and angled it defensively in front of her. “Form up,” she barked. “Ring formation.”

He was suddenly forced to throw his arms out for balance as the flagstones beneath his feet rumbled and shook. He focused his attention, reducing his denial’s radius but increasing its strength until he stood in a small island of calm. Around him, Meredith and the templars did the same to varying degrees of efficacy. One barked in pain as the flagstones bucked, throwing him to the ground. He scrambled to his feet quickly as the rumbling stilled and re-joined the loose ring of templars.

From the corner of his eye, Cullen caught the glitter of rune traps and hexes as they formed on the ground. He barely had chance to bark out a warning before a warrior ran howling from an alley, longsword held above his head. The man spitted himself neatly on Cullen’s blade as he punched it forwards into the man’s gut. Cullen felt light resistance from shattered chainmail links as he pulled his blade back out. He raised his shield quickly to block a cone of cold ice that sparkled faintly in the moonlight.

Without a shield of her own, Meredith dodged around a fireball that hurtled out of another high window. In that brief flash of brightness, Cullen spotted the silhouetted figure of a mage. He mustered his mental focus and called a powerful smite down on the figure, stretching to the very limits of his range. The was a flash of white light from the window that illuminated the figure as it was sent hurtling out of view.

His attention was drawn back to the rapid approach of a man wielding a wicked dagger. Flames flickered along the edge of his blade in fade-touched green. They snapped out abruptly as the man entered the tight sphere of Cullen’s denial. He darted unpredictably across the shattered flagstones and dashed in low towards Cullen. Cullen took a half-step back and caught the dagger on his shield before it could slice up towards the weak spot under his armpit. His assailant leapt back almost as soon as his blade impacted the shield and darted in at a different angle. He dipped low under a sweep of Meredith’s sword and feinted to the left.

Cullen caught the tell-tale movement as the man palmed a second blade and brought it up towards Cullen’ unprotected face. He caught the blade and pushed forwards before his assailant could move backwards again. The man’s blade was forced back towards his chest, cutting into his leather armour. His eyes widened in fear as his arm was crushed against his chest. Cullen rammed forwards a step further and pulled his sword sharply to one side to slit his throat with the blade's razor edge.

His chest suddenly tightened as he felt a crushing prison form about him. His heart shuddered, and he unthinkingly closed his eyes in horror at the touch of magic. He mustered a short-range burst of cleansing energy that shattered the bands of force. His eyes snapped open again and he glanced to either side, cursing himself for the uncontrolled reaction. The others were engaged with their own attacks, but there was a clear avenue for him to enter one of the buildings concealing a mage.

“Knight-Commander!” he shouted and pointed his sword towards the building, “the mage.”

She spared a moment to nod her approval before focusing back on her own assailant.

He dashed forwards over the uneven ground, dodging in between half-seen rune traps with his shield high to block any magical attacks. He kicked open the door and darted inside. Thick stone walls blocked most of the sound of combat from outside. The interior of the abandoned building was dark and empty.

He felt another tug of lyrium as a nearby mage cast another spell. He widened out his denial again and his awareness of magic in the air snapped out abruptly. He smiled grimly and crept cautiously up the stairs, watchful for hidden assailants. There was a scuffing sound from a dark doorway as a figure rushed out, bladed staff held high. Cullen’s blade pulsed white, purging the mage’s mana in a burst of channelled power at almost the same instant as he severed the arm holding the staff just above the elbow. The mage shrieked in a combination of shock and pain and reeled backwards before a blade through the heart finished him.

Cullen quickly cleared the remaining rooms before dashing back out into the shadowed courtyard. He cast an experienced eye around the courtyard. Every other assailant was either dead, or close enough that it made little difference. The feel of magic in the air had faded. The mages were dead or had fled.

Cullen slipped into the adjacent building that held the mage on whom he had called the smite. The man slumped on the floor in a semi-conscious daze, bleeding from a deep wound where a shard of shattered furniture had pierced his side as he was thrown across the room. His hand clutched weakly for his staff and he tried to pull himself up.

 _Never turn your back on a mage,_ whispered an insidious voice as he readied himself for a finishing blow, _they are never defenceless_.

“I surrender.” The apostate yelped as Cullen's booted foot on his chest forced him to stay down. He coughed wetly and closed his eyes before his voice fell to a whisper.  “Not that I expect you to honour that.”

He recoiled as Cullen’s sword rested at his throat.  _Never trust a mage,_ screamed the voice in his head.

It took longer than it should have to decide.A burst of energy purged any lingering mana from the apostate's body and illuminated the darkened room for a second.

“Your surrender is accepted, apostate.” He stared down the length of his blade at the slumped figure. “What could you have hoped to gain from this pointless attack?”

“Take a guess, templar.” The mage winced and clapped a hand to his side. Blood oozed from between his fingers. Cullen blinked back the welter of memories that sight evoked and tensed _._ “Both the Knight-Commander and her second-in-command outside the Gallows at the same time with only a small escort? Opportunities like that never come up.”

“Our lives matter little." With impossible force of will, he held back the twitch of his arm that would slit the man's throat. This apostate was not Uldred. "You would only bring the entire Order down on your heads.”

“Ridding Kirkwall of you and Meredith is worth it as far as the underground is concerned. We couldn't be any worse off,” he replied with a pained grimace. He hauled in a laboured breath underneath the force of Cullen's boot. “Sadly, no mercenaries were willing to take the contract at such short notice.”

Cullen shook his head in disbelief and removed his foot. He hauled the mage to his feet, ignoring the man’s gasp of pain, and hauled the mage out of the building. With a shove, he was forced down onto his knees in front of Meredith.

“Mercy?” the apostate panted as he met the combined impassive regard of the templars in front of him.

“He is allied with the Mage Underground. He might have information for us,” Cullen suggested to her.

“Perhaps.” Meredith loomed over the kneeling mage. “But we cannot risk returning a maleficar to the Gallows. He must be executed.”

“He has surrendered, Knight-Commander,” Cullen reminded her.

“Meaningless words from an apostate.” She indicated the oozing wound with the tip of her sword, utterly indifferent to the mage’s sudden pleas. “He has a ready source of power. We cannot safely restrain a potential blood mage, Cullen.”

She took a step back and raised her sword. Cullen stepped back too, out of range of her swing, an objection choking in his throat. Copper tang in the air. Blood magic, or a memory brought on by fear?

Her blade hummed through the air and separated the apostate’s head from his body. It landed with a wet thump and rolled until it faced Cullen. The body slumped and a pool of blood crept towards his boots.

He stood oblivious as wide staring eyes bored into his with a look of accusation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We actually only see templars in the chantry at the end of Act 3. But I refuse to believe that Kirkwall’s main cathedral would be entirely unprotected when even backwaters like Honnleath and Lothering get templars. That means all this extra plot in the background related to a (stunningly incompetent) detachment assigned to the chantry.
> 
> Side note: I've created another fic to put the Kinloch Hold flashbacks in order. This main fic has therefore been renamed and integrated in a series.


	24. Resisting the Qun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll admit, the Qunari conflict is actually the part that interests me the least as far as this fic goes. Apologies in advance if the chapter turned out a little rushed. This is one I wanted to get out of the way so I can get back to the stuff I enjoy more, but I didn't want to skip the event entirely.

**August 9:34 Dragon**

The first sign was fire. Flames licked over the ships moored at Kirkwall’s docks and painted the clouds a lurid red. The infernos belched out towering pillars of smoke that seemed to be trying to rival the distant peaks of the Vimmarks for height.

Kirkwall had held its breath for a week after the deaths in the chantry. No one admitted it, but they knew that something, somewhere would break. Whether the Qunari finally left, or were ejected from Kirkwall, or chose war. Something would happen.

Templars had been told in no uncertain terms that they were restricted to the Gallows unless on assigned duties until tensions resolved, one way or the other. Ambris kept a tight hold on her new command too. If conflict came, it would not be initiated by the Order or the Chantry. In all that time, the Viscount hadn’t made a single appearance. And not a single Qunari had been seen outside their compound. But the despairing and directionless continued to trickle in, desperate to find some meaning under the Qun.

That tense calm had finally broken.

It was a rare evening that found Cullen in the chantry rather than buried under a mountain of responsibilities. He knelt in the peaceful silence with head bowed over his clasped hands. Guidance. Perspective. A sign to show him the right path. Anything other than yet another dead face with accusing eyes to join the ones that haunted his dreams. Templars. Mages. Innocents dead at the hands of an abomination or maleficar.  If those faces were a sign, Maker knew what they were telling him. That he should feel guilty when others died, and he still lived? That was hardly new.

His eyes snapped open and the whispered prayers dried up as he heard a distant commotion from the corridors outside. The few Sisters still working in the chantry at the late hour exchanged curious looks as Cullen stood smoothly and swept out. He stopped a passing templar as the man hurried down the corridor towards the barracks.

“What is it?”

“Fire on the Kirkwall docks is what I heard, Ser.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. There could be a mundane reason for the fire. Cynicism told him that fire was also an excellent way to block the docks.

He strode out into the humid night air of the Gallows’ courtyard. Usually the courtyard would have been empty apart from those stationed on the night watch. Tonight, a small audience had gathered in front of the sealed main portcullis to the Gallows’ docks. They peered out through the heavy iron bars towards the distant flames that licked the air.

“Return to the barracks immediately,” Cullen barked out into the unnaturally still air, “Unless you have assigned duties out here.”

The groups started guilty and broke up to stream past Cullen with muted apologies and salutes. The on-duty Knight-Corporal slid up next to Cullen.

“I had just sent someone to look for you and the Knight-Commander, Ser.”

“Report.”

“Multiple fires all across the docks, Knight-Captain.” He squinted out towards the main gate and the distant glow of flames. “Your pardon, Ser, but if those fires were accidental, I’m Andraste herself.”

“I’m just surprised it took this long,” Cullen sighed.

“Ser?” The Knight-Corporal glanced back at Cullen with a questioning look.

Cullen shook his head to dismiss the comment. “Never mind.”

The Gallows was ringed with ramparts all along the outer walls. Long disused. Threats lay within the Gallows, not without. But at times like this, it was the simplest way to get a clear view of Kirkwall. From that viewpoint, the stiff breeze off the bay carried the smell of burning wood and canvas.

Cullen sighed resignedly as he saw the distant docks. They were entirely blocked off by a wall of flame that illuminated the buildings and highlighted ripples in the water halfway out to the Gallows. Little chance of it being coincidence. The Qunari knew perfectly well that the only military force with any hope of matching them was isolated out in the bay. Now, just as Cullen had feared, they had been denied their most direct route into Kirkwall. But without the Order seizing the docks for themselves, there had been nothing that could be done to prevent that eventuality.

He turned back to the stairwell as Meredith appeared. The distant flames caught on her coronet and ringed her head in fire for a moment. She looked out towards the city. “Your prediction was correct, then. A pity the Viscount would not listen.”

“I would rather have been wrong, Knight-Commander.” He looked up towards where Hightown perched on the cliffs, its towers black silhouettes against the night sky. “Impossible to be sure, but I see no flames in Hightown. We may yet have time to reach the Keep and the chantry before it’s too late.”

“Then we proceed as planned.” She turned sharply back towards the Gallows. “Come, we must rouse the mages.” She seemed inordinately happy at the idea.

Even the attempt on their lives hadn’t been enough to convince Meredith to let another lead the vanguard force to Hightown. It seemed a paltry force that she had gathered. Half a squad of templars and as many mages. Despite Cullen’s protests, Meredith had not felt the need for more. If he could consider it only in the cold light of reason, it made sense. A larger force would lose too much time in the underground passages. One templar per mage. It would have to be enough.

Orsino himself had been conscripted for Meredith’s small team, much to the mage’s discomfort. All Cullen had seen and read on the First Enchanter suggested that he was a middling talent at best, with a specialisation in Force magic like half the other mages in Kirkwall. Perfectly placed to avoid scrutiny from the Templars before he had suddenly risen to the position of First Enchanter. And not the obvious choice for a vanguard assault.

Now he looked vaguely nauseous as Meredith prepared to lead the way down into the underground network. His ornate staff was clutched in a white-knuckled grip. He stopped — seemingly to straighten his robes — just above the stairwell. Theirs was a tentative truce, and Cullen braced himself for the possibility of a tirade on the presumption of Meredith’s demand for Circle assistance. Instead, Orsino seemed pensive. It was a relief to know that the First Enchanter would not argue against the necessity of coming to the city’s aid.

“Remember, Knight-Captain, that we are not soldiers.” Orsino looked over the few mages Meredith had selected with a pained expression that described just how heavily responsibility was weighing on him. For a moment, Cullen found himself empathising with the feeling. “I fear-”

“Orsino!”

Meredith’s sharp summons cut off whatever Orsino had meant to say. He sighed in irritation and scowled at Cullen. “Don’t forget your duty. There are mages entrusted to your care.”

As they had been for years. Cullen absorbed the insult without comment. Nerves before battle were hardly an unfamiliar concept, even amongst templars. Orsino would know well enough that he would have prepared for every eventuality. Enemy forces might have been Orsino’s main meaning, but there were other concerns. Abominations where mages didn’t take adequate precautions. Burn out. Every mage in his force had a pair of templars assigned to monitor them and each one of them knew the signs. The possible threats were easy to identify, even if Orsino might protest against their likelihood.

“Nor you yours.” Cullen responded evenly. “We need those docks clear if we are to defend the city. The Knight-Commander has put a lot of trust in you.”

Orsino raised an eyebrow and patted his staff. “I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid drawing templar attention through magic, but I’m sure I can manage to help push a burning ship out to sea.” He tapped his staff to his chest in a sarcastic salute. “I suppose in this one instance there isn’t much difference between us. Neither of us have much connection to Kirkwall, but we are required to fight regardless.”

“You know I believe the innocent must always be protected. That belief isn’t  reserved for magic’s misuse.” He paused a moment and nodded a brief farewell. “You have your chance to wander the streets of Kirkwall. Don’t make us regret it. Maybe here magic might actually do more good than harm here. Maker guide you, First Enchanter.”

Orsino answered Cullen’s parting comment with a bemused chuckle before he began his descent. His mutter carried to Cullen. “Maker. Templars will be the death of me.”

With Meredith’s force gone, there was nothing to do but wait and pray there was no major opposition for them between the Gallows and the docks. Cullen stood on the ramparts looking out towards Kirkwall whilst massed ranks of templars waited in the main courtyard below. Nestled in amongst those ranks, a select few mages waited anxiously. Kirkwall’s Circle had only a bare handful of combat-trained mages — to Cullen’s constant relief — but that was to their disadvantage at times like this. Orsino had more to be concerned about with his own, smaller group. There were more than enough templars to keep the mages in Cullen’s own force secure and, as importantly, to ensure they didn’t go rogue.

Despite all his training, his experience had focused on mages and magic. Not helping to retake a city in a grand mobilisation of forces, even if only a fraction of the Order’s full complement in Kirkwall. Despite that, his heart rate continued its usual measured pace. Their plan was sound. Their goal was clear. _In this — if nothing else — there is no reason to doubt my every decision and thought._

His gaze tracked over the distant docks, the smoke filled breeze tickling the back of his throat. Finally, he spotted the first hints of movement as the blazing ships began to drift out to sea. A brilliant flare of white light blasted up into the air, bright enough to penetrate through the thick haze of smoke. The signal to advance. His barked orders carried down to the courtyard below and the massed ranks moved to embark the ferries to Kirkwall.

The vanguard pulled into the docks and right into the teeth of a Qunari force. It was the first time outside of training drills that Cullen had faced skilled opponents trained in the arts of battle. He quickly found out that the Qunari’s apparent unarmoured state was a deception when his sword skidded off the geometric lines that decorated one’s torso. The keen blade didn’t even leave a scratch in the vibrant paint. Cullen recovered quickly as his opponent chuckled with amusement. A blade through his unprotected throat quickly changed that to a wet gurgle.

Cullen moved forwards with the ranks to the next attacker. He wasn’t even a Qunari, but a desperate elf. A convert to the Qun. The elf’s eyes widened in fear as he dropped his bow and drew a shortsword. He fell quickly. The sound of steel on steel and grunts of exertion or shouts of pain filled the air.

In the end, the fight to fully reclaim the docks was short and efficient. The Qunari were dangerous opponents, that much was obvious from the scattered bodies of city guardsmen. But they were not unbeatable. When he could next spare a moment to look around, every other Qunari was dead. They hadn’t even needed the support of the mages, still on the final ferry.

 _Thank the Maker,_ he thought gratefully. He allowed himself a moment to feel relief. For the past week, he had been haunted by dreams where one would turn on him in the heat of battle. Despite his comment to Orsino that magic might actually have an opportunity to do good here. _Maker. If only I had not been required to fight alongside mages._

He forced the anxiety away and scanned the area. In the end, there had been only a few Qunari holding the docks. And more converts to the Qun than actual Qunari. No doubt it had been easy for Meredith’s force to slip through their cordon and clear the jetties before the paltry reinforcements arrived. Whatever the Arishok intended, it wasn’t to hold the docks.

Around him, the templar forces had begun to spread out to create a safe cordon. Karras, Conrad and June emerged from the press and stopped in front of him.

Cullen nodded to Karras. “You have your orders, Ser Karras. The Knight-Commander intends to push on to Hightown.” Whether or not she had informed Orsino of that plan was a different matter. “Maker willing, you will catch them before they reach the Keep.”

Cullen watched Karras move off for a moment, his impatient commands booming through the air. At least the man’s more aggressive instincts would be better suited to this task than his current assignment to the Circle.

Conrad was next. A Knight-Lieutenant with more than ten years’ experience leading the first Kirkwall platoon. A reliable and methodical templar who could be depended upon without too much oversight. Unlike Karras. “Hold the docks. We will need to keep this avenue clear.”

Finally, he turned to June, bright in the freshly forged armour of a Knight-Lieutenant.  Her promotion to command of the second Kirkwall platoon had been approved only days ago. “Our orders are to capture the Qunari compound. Ready your squads.”

Cullen led the force through streets that were unnaturally silent. The docks were always busy, even at night. Now, the only sound was the distant crackle of flames.

They caught a patrol of Qunari by surprise halfway between the docks and the compound. A small cluster of citizens streamed past, desperately fleeing their attackers.

“Find refuge at the docks,” Cullen snapped out as his force moved forwards to engage the patrol.

With another pile of bodies littering the floor, they moved onwards. Citizens were directed towards the safety of the forces holding the docks. Qunari patrols pushed back hard against the Templar advance. But the Order had the discipline and training to match them. With their strength in numbers, the patrols were efficiently dispatched, clearing a safe path littered with Qunari bodies back to the docks. In each skirmish, Cullen kept the mages back. He told himself he was simply doing his duty as their guardian, that there was no reason to risk them when the templars could easily handle the Qunari. But the real reason was obvious if he had cared to face it.

The gates to the Qunari compound itself were defended by the largest force. It was there that Cullen caught his first glimpse of a pair of Qunari Saarebas. Until now, the Qunari had kept their mages concealed in their compound, wisely choosing to avoid drawing Templar attention. Masked and weighed down by chains piercing a heavy collar, the hunched figures were a menacing figure in the fire-lit streets. But for all their monstrous appearance, a mage was a mage, regardless of race. They gaped almost in unison as the raw energy flickering in their palms was silenced.

A templar blade cut the first down before he had a chance to recover. The other retreated in confusion to a position behind the defending Qunari force. An armoured Qunari shouted angrily at the retreating Saarebas, unable to understand why he fell back.

Despite all the danger inherent in magical attacks, with so many templars, the mages were the least of their worries. Towering Qunari warriors ran at the templar lines, weapons held high. It was a hard fought battle that left more than a few dead templars crumpled on the dirty stone floor. Finally, the last warrior fell. The cowering Saarebas followed soon after and the hum of lyrium that had run a hushed counterpoint to the clash of steel fell silent.

Cullen had been too focused on moving from one assailant to the next to truly focus on the blood and bodies that covered the area in front of the compound. His shoulders slumped as he counted the dead templar bodies. It had been too much to hope that they would all survive unscathed.

“Check for survivors.” He scanned the waiting mages and forced away his reluctance. One Spirit magic specialist numbered amongst them. “Senior Enchanter Mithran, heal those that can be saved.”

The healer’s templar shadow followed in the mage’s wake. Cullen was glad it wasn’t a trial he would be required to endure. But he could not leave men under his command to die simply because he feared to use the tools he had available.

Cullen turned his narrowed gaze on the entrance to the Qunari compound. The gates were sealed tightly shut, just as they had always been. If it weren’t for the unnatural stillness following the shouts and screams of battle, it could have been the same as any other day in Kirkwall.

Those who could be saved were dragged away to safety, leaving the remainder of forces lined in neat ranks in front of the compound’s gates. Cullen swallowed, clenched his fists unconsciously, and stepped to one side. The fact that lyrium lay in easy reach wasn’t quite as comforting as it should have been.

“Enchanter Yarrow.” The words nearly froze in his mouth. “Destroy the gate.”

The mage stepped forwards with a smile she couldn’t quite contain. She twirled her staff experimentally and eyed the gate with a calculating look. No doubt she was conscious of the armed and wary templars on every side, but she seemed more than happy to be given an exceptionally rare moment for free rein.

Even knowing exactly what would happen, Cullen flinched as magic hummed through the air. It took every ounce of control to restrain the instinct to draw on lyrium. A bolt of pure force pounded into the gate. It shuddered and buckled under the powerful blow. Another blast, and the hinges tore from the walls with a painful screech of tortured metal. The gates collapsed to the floor with a crash that filled the air with a haze of dust.

Cullen blinked rapidly as the screech seemed to continue ringing in his ears. “Seize the compound.”

Somehow, the order emerged at a proper command volume, although it felt like it should have caught behind the lump in his throat. The ranks streamed past him into the compound. A rapid onslaught whilst they still had the element of surprise.

Cullen ascended the short flight of steps leading into the compound more slowly. The shades of anxiety faded as his gaze flickered over the small plaza, assessing the strategic situation. Unlike the rest of the docks, the compound was barely lit. Flickering flames from the streets outside barely penetrated. A handful of dead guardsmen slumped to one side of the open space. Spears pierced their backs. They had been fleeing their attackers. Not expecting an attack then.

The main open space of the compound was otherwise empty. Perhaps the Qunari had not expected so many to penetrate to their compound, or they hadn’t intended to hold it any more than the docks. Cullen caught sounds of combat as his force swept methodically through the twisting network of alleys that arced away from the central space.

He slipped into a shadowed passage towards the closest sounds just in time to see a bronze-skinned Qunari extract his greatsword from a templar’s chest with the rasping sound of steel on steel. The templar let out a deep groan and collapsed limply to his knees, spine severed. He slid sideways and slumped onto the fallen body of a mage.

The Qunari heard Cullen’s rapid approach and whipped around. His sword blade looked black with blood in the darkness of the passage. He held the weapon loosely, a lazy smile visible through the grille on the helm that marked him as a Sten. A rank comparable to Cullen’s own.

“Basvaarad vashedan. Shoh eb katara.”

Cullen understood enough to recognise the insult and the confident arrogance of a command. The disdain that dripped from the words was obvious either way.

He didn’t bother wasting his breath on a retort and rapidly assessed the Qunari. The greatsword was impossibly long. Little use in maintaining a defensive posture. The Qunari’s greater reach and strength would overpower him sooner rather than later. The only option would be a quick offence.

The Qunari no doubt knew exactly what Cullen was thinking. He rushed forwards at almost the same instant as Cullen, sword held low to account for the foot difference in height. The greatsword slid harmlessly past, deflected by Cullen’s shield, and he closed inside the Qunari’s reach. Even knowing now to avoid the paint that marked the Qunari’s body, his sword slid harmlessly off one of the thick  lines. The razor edge grazed an inconsequential cut on the Qunari’s waist.

The Qunari huffed out an amused breath and kneed Cullen to try and force him back. Cullen twisted with the blow and stayed inside the Qunari’s reach. He could not afford to give the Qunari the advantage. The Qunari’s confident smile morphed into an ugly scowl.

Cullen drew his sword back and deflected another ineffectual blow. The Qunari’s eyes widened and he grunted as Cullen’s sword entered his gut, twisting brutally.  Cullen hissed in frustration as he felt the blade catch on bone. The Qunari’s sword fell from nerveless hands and he buckled, Cullen’s sword the only thing holding him up.

Before Cullen could withdraw the blade, he caught a rapid blur from the corner of his eye. A Qunari barrelled out of the shadows and knocked him into the opposite wall at high speed. His sword – still embedded in the collapsing Qunari’s gut – was pulled from his hand. His shield spun out in another direction and skittered across the floor. The breath was blown from his lungs in a sharp burst.

Cullen felt a sharp pain in his chest. _Ribs,_ assessed a small part of him not dazed by the impact. He hauled in a breath and felt a twinge of pain. _Definitely ribs._

He was given little chance to recover. The furious Qunari directed a strike of his double-bladed axe towards Cullen. The heavy weapon whistled through the air at neck height. Cullen ducked under the blow and scooped the first Qunari’s greatsword from the ground. The heavy weapon felt surprisingly comfortable in his hands, despite the difference in balance to templar-plan weapons. He settled into the familiar stance, heavy blade raised defensively.

If anything, the warrior looked even more furious now that Cullen held the Qunari blade. He spat a curse before launching an attack. Cullen deflected a few uncontrolled swings from the axe blade, falling back into the familiar rhythm. When an opening presented itself he drew a wide cut across the Qunari’s chest. The slash bloomed red to match the lines painted across the warrior’s chest.

A familiar sensation filled the air and Cullen reacted near instantaneously on trained instinct. The damping hum of lyrium filled the air, silencing any attempts at magic by the unseen mage.

The Qunari warrior in front of him was too well trained to react. Either that, or Cullen had just silenced a mage from his own forces. But a Circle mage would know better than to cast near an unaware templar. No time to worry about the nearby mage.

The Qunari had recovered from his wild rage, and now paced to one side, seeking an opening. Cullen took the opportunity to leap forwards with an attack of his own that was slapped aside by the flat of the Qunari’s axe.

The Qunari hauled his axe up for a powerful overhead strike that would have split Cullen in two had it hit. Cullen dodged to one side and took the opening for another strike that pierced up through the Qunari’s side. Not a fatal wound, but the Qunari grunted and his axe drooped. Another precise strike dropped the Qunari as his lungs filled with blood.

Cullen whirled around, scanning quickly for the unseen mage. Not a Circle mage. A Saarebas stood beyond the door from which the second warrior had emerged. Confusion was clear in his eyes as he clenched his fists and mumbled through sewn-up lips. The Saarebas threw a wild punch. Cullen dodged the inexpert blow easily and swept the Saarebas’ feet out from under him before piercing his heart with the greatsword.

His hands leapt from the greatsword’s hilt almost as soon as the Qunari apostate gasped out his dying breath. As comforting as the familiar weight of the greatsword was, it could awaken darker memories. With the blade through his chest, the body looked uncannily like a failed Harrowing.

Cullen jogged back to his own weapons and grabbed his shield from where it had fallen before extracting his longsword from the first Qunari with a sharp tug. Despite scraping bone, the blade was undamaged, testament to the skill of templar weaponsmiths.

With a quick glance to ensure there were no more threats, he crouched by the fallen templar and mage and pulled off his gauntlet. He removed the templar’s helm but let out a sorrowful exhalation when there was no breath or pulse to be found. A check of the mage revealed a strong heartbeat.

The mage’s eyes flickered open and she gasped in surprise at the sight of Cullen’s blank helm. Cullen’s sharp jerk backwards and intake of breath was almost as pronounced as hers. He couldn’t say whether the tightness of his chest was the usual low-lying fear or the altogether newer confused feeling at the flicker of distrust he saw as she looked up at him. A welter of instincts warred inside him. He set his sword to one side and held up his hand.

“Peace. Are you injured?” The strain in his voice left the question cold and forbidding.

“I was knocked unconscious, but I’m fine.” Her eyes flickered over his armour and tightened further. “Knight-Captain.”

Cullen’s gaze twitched over to the dead templar, although the mage would not have seen. “You have him to thank for that.” _Or he has her to blame for his death,_ paranoia whispered. He tilted his chin to indicate the body and his hand crept back to his sword. “What happened to him, Enchanter?”

“We were caught by surprise. I hadn’t a chance to cast before I was knocked out.” Her pained grimace seemed genuine enough. _Cannot be trusted,_ paranoia continued. “Maker’s own truth, Knight-Captain.”

He stood quickly and backed away as the mage pushed herself to her feet. He winced slightly as the rapid movement pulled at his cracked rib. With a cautious look over to Cullen, she collected her staff carefully and leaned on it for support.

She waved a hand to the body, one hand still supporting herself on the staff. “I haven’t much skill in healing, but I can check…”

“Little use. He’s dead.”

The mage flinched at the bitterness in his response.

Lighter footsteps heralded the arrival of June. Her helmeted head tracked over the three dead Qunari before meeting Cullen’s gaze. “The compound is clear, Ser.”

Her arrival drew most of Cullen’s attention away from the mage. “Good. Now we hold until we hear word from the Knight-Commander. I want patrols sweeping the area for stragglers. Direct citizens to our forces at the docks.”

If need be, the Gallows would serve as a hub for refugees once again.

“Ser,” she acknowledged with a salute. She glanced over to the fallen templar and mage behind Cullen. “I’ll escort the mage back to the rest of the group and have someone retrieve the body.”

“Please do.”

It wasn’t until they had both left that Cullen became aware he still held desperately to the humming denial of magic. He dropped it quickly, unsure whether to be embarrassed or glad that those cautious instincts remained. With a wince in response to the pain in his ribs, moved back out into the compound’s main area. With the docks under their control, Cullen dispatched squads to range further out into Lowtown whilst he established a temporary command post in the compound to coordinate their efforts.

Reports returned to him of fiery barricades blocking the streets to hinder their advance. Qunari resistance was small. All signs pointed to the Qunari focusing their efforts on Hightown. It made sense with their limited forces. Cut off the city’s leadership and the rest would have no choice but to follow.

The sound of a shrill voice drew Cullen away from his command post. The voice rose to a painful pitch just as Cullen reached the compound’s entrance. A mage was desperately trying to force his way past the sentries stationed on either side of where the gate had once stood. His watchers were nowhere to be seen. One sentry caught him in a secure hold and forced him to stand still.

“What is happening here?” Cullen snapped out. “You know the penalty for attempted escape, Enchanter.”

“I can’t do this,” gasped the mage. His gaze fell on the scattered bodies and viscera. His shudder was visible even from as far away as Cullen stood. Cullen’s own eyes tracked to the sight. Behind lyrium, any revulsion was damped almost out of existence. “I’m not a soldier. This is the first time I’ve left the Gallows in ten years.”  He futilely tried to push himself out of the hold. “Let me go!”

“Orders, Ser?”

“He’s a threat to us all like this.” The panic in the mage set Cullen’s own heart racing with a different kind of fear. “Cleanse and Silence. Keep him secure.” He shook his head. “Maker. We’ll need to assess him fully once we return to the Gallows. If he is at risk of losing control…”

It wasn’t necessary to finish the sentence. It happened. Even Harrowed mages were not immune to falling to possession in moments of weakness or panic. This was almost precisely one of the scenarios he had feared. These mages had lived in the Circle their whole lives. They were purposefully kept isolated from such traumas. It was absurd to assume they could all cope with battle as well as a trained templar.

A dull hum deadened the air as the templar complied with Cullen’s orders. Cullen stopped them just before the mage was hauled away.

“You risk tranquility,” he cautioned the mage. _If only that warning didn_ _’t feel so tainted_. “You’re a Harrowed mage. Control yourself.”

It was hardly a surprise, but the warning didn’t help much. His frantic movements calmed, but his eyes were wide and his breathing still shallow and impossibly fast. With a shudder of his own, Cullen returned to the makeshift command post. With enough focus on co-ordinating his forces, it was easy enough to ignore the odd twinge of pain. _Better that than seeing the spirit healer_ , he thought with a shudder. Cracked ribs healed eventually.

It was perhaps a handful of hours before dawn when they finally received word from the Keep. Cullen’s patrols had long since secured Lowtown. Now they focused on escorting citizens to safety and keeping Hightown cordoned off. One patrol had encountered Karras’ messenger as he descended from Hightown. The man presented himself at Cullen’s makeshift command post with a salute and restrained grin.

“I’m pleased to report that the Qunari threat has been neutralised, Ser.”

Cullen breathed a gentle sigh of relief. “Thank the Maker. What happened in Hightown?”

“Quite a lot, Ser.” The man answered before transitioning into a crisp account of events.

In the end, Karras’ force hadn’t caught up with Meredith until after the majority of the battle was over. But it was possible to piece together a rough timeline. All things considered, the report could have been worse. The Viscount was dead, that in itself was a major blow to the city. With the Gallows so distant from Hightown, it was disappointing, but not a surprise to find that they had been too late. But the Qunari had left much of the city’s infrastructure untouched. Instead, the Arishok had marched directly to the Keep where he had intended to force the surrender and conversion of the city’s leadership.

Cullen almost sighed in exasperation when the report neared its completion. The Qunari surrender had followed the death of their Arishok at the hands of a familiar name. Hawke. A name that turned up far too often in connection with trouble. Still,  if the Knight-Commander had been there, she might be able to see for herself whether Cullen’s suspicions of her apostasy were correct.

The messenger finished his efficient account of the events with a salute. “The Knight-Commander requests your presence for a report.”

Cullen called over a spare squad. Meredith might not have been concerned, but it would be better not to tempt any opportunistic attacks now that a modicum of peace had been restored.

“Lead the way.”

Even after three years, Kirkwall didn’t feel like home to Cullen. Even the Gallows didn’t. It was easy then to dispassionately assess the damage to the city as they ascended to Hightown. The flaming barricades had mostly died down by now to leave charred piles of blackened wood. Piles of rags in corners resolved themselves into dead bodies of people who hadn’t managed to flee the Qunari fast enough. _It could have been worse_.

Cullen’s eyebrows rose at the sight of a peaceful group of Qunari waiting under guard in the square outside the keep.

“They surrendered.” The messenger replied in response to his unspoken question. “We’re keeping them secure until a ship can be commandeered to send them back to Par Vollen, Ser.” He shook his head bemusedly. “Honestly, the guards are just for show. The Qunari just walked themselves right out after their leader died.”

The Keep’s interior was uncharacteristically silent without the crowds of citizens waiting for an audience. It was impossible to miss the templars stationed prominently throughout the hall, obviously on guard duty. The city guard themselves were nowhere to be seen, despite the keep being the centre of their operations. Perhaps they had all been massacred by the Qunari. If it was true, that would be another major blow to the city’s stability.

Karras strode up to meet him, helm under his arm. The man had been unfailing polite in recent weeks. Now was no different. “Good. My messenger found you then, Ser.”

Cullen waved a hand to indicate the prominent guards. “The Qunari surrendered, surely the Knight-Commander isn’t expecting another attack?”

Karras shook his head. “No, Ser. The Knight-Commander decided to ‘lend’ the Keep a few templars for security. She thought the guard needed time to recover before they could defend the Keep properly.” He let out a hard chuckle and looked pointedly at the dead guardsmen lined up to the side of the hall. “Can’t say she’s wrong.”

Cullen scanned the hall. Orsino sat with slumped shoulders on a bench off to one side. A pair of templars flanked him at a polite distance. Those others who had accompanied him were nowhere to be seen. “Where are the other mages?”

“They weren’t quite as lucky as the First Enchanter.” Karras shook his head with disgust. “Don’t send robes to do a templar’s job.”

Orsino’s head came up as he heard Cullen and Karras’ discussion. He pushed past his guardians and stalked up to Cullen. He exchanged matching looks of loathing with Karras before folding his arms.

“I hope you kept my people safe where Meredith would not, Knight-Captain.” Despite his belligerent tone, Cullen could see the pain in the mage’s eyes. “There have been more than enough mages lost tonight.”

“We did our duty. Templars died to keep your mages safe, First Enchanter.”

And it was true. Not a single one of the mages under his command had been so much as scratched. That was admittedly because he had kept them away from the worst of the fighting. But he could still feel safe in the certainty that he had fulfilled his duty tonight.

“Waste of templar lives, if you ask me,” Karras said in an undertone. His smirk faltered under Cullen’s withering look. “The Knight-Commander is in the throne room, when you’re ready, Ser.” Karras muttered before retreating.

“I’ll not be so crass as to dismiss their sacrifice.” He pointedly ignored Karras’ departure. “If only every templar was so rigorous in keeping their vows.”

“Alrik and his associates are gone,” Cullen reminded him. “Unless you have a specific accusation to make,” at this he did look at Karras’, where Orsino had so studiously avoided him, “I’ll do my best to ensure the rest stay in line.” Over four hundred templars. Maker knew it was a monumental task. “To more urgent matters. One of your mages is unfit to leave the Gallows. He was in danger of losing control. I must recommend him for assessment.”

“Are you surprised? You keep us locked up and then force us to fight.” Orsino scrubbed a hand over his face, drawing attention to the shadows under his eyes. “Just … wait before you tell Meredith. Let me speak to him first.”

“You know I could not even consider that for more reasons than I could count,” Cullen replied with a sigh. Orsino had simply voiced Cullen’s own concern, even if the rationale behind it was different. Regardless, it couldn't change the outcome. “But I will attend to his assessment myself.”

Orsino exhaled. If he knew how difficult that offer was to make, he didn’t acknowledge it. “Of course.” He scanned Cullen’s robes — inevitably stained with the odd splash of blood as a conspicuous indicator of the Order’s more savage aspect — with an unreadable look. “I suppose congratulations are in order for a battle well fought,” he said wearily before he stepped to one side, “But don’t let me keep you.”

Another pair of tempalrs flanked the throne room’s doors, gazes fixed ahead of them. They pushed open the doors for him with a salute. Cullen was surprised to find that the throne room was still full of people. He would have expected the hostages to have long since been allowed to return to their homes. But a few more of Karras' men stood in front of the door out of the throne room, preventing anyone from leaving. A low hum of subdued conversation filled the room, and more than a few inquisitive looks turned his way as the doors were resealed behind him.

A triumphant smile split Meredith's face as she spotted Cullen entering the throne room. Cullen saluted as she drew to a halt in front of him.

“We have control of the docks and Lowtown, Knight-Commander.”

"We are victorious. Excellent work." Her eyebrows lowered. “I imagine you received the report from Karras’ messenger? Sadly, it is not all good news. Your suspicions were correct. This Hawke is an apostate.”

“Then she must be brought to the Circle immediately,” Cullen responded urgently.

“Unfortunately, that is no longer an option for us.” She waved a hand to indicate the crowd. “She and her companions assisted in recapturing the Keep. She was instrumental in subduing the Arishok.” Her expression darkened. “Kirkwall has a new Champion.”

He wasn’t a Marcher, and the concept of a Champion was only vaguely familiar. But he knew enough to know it was a title associated with significant respect and glory. “What are your orders then?”

“We wait. She will be given chance to prove her loyalty. If she falters, we may strike. But there are more urgent matters to address than a single apostate.” She cast a contemplative look towards the empty throne. "Unfortunately, we were too late to save the Viscount. Perhaps it is not as great a loss as I first thought."

Cullen frowned in confusion. It seemed Meredith had transitioned into another of her increasingly common enigmatic moods. "What do you mean, Knight-Commander?"

"The city has suffered too long under ineffectual leadership." She responded cryptically before turning away. "If you would excuse me for a moment. I must speak with Seneschal Bran."

Cullen gratefully slid out of the press of people and moved to the periphery of the room. Meredith seemed more than happy to deal with the nobility. He would leave it to her until she had need of him again.

"Quite the gathering, isn't it?" Spoke a gruff voice by his elbow.

Cullen looked down towards the dwarf that had appeared at his side, mildly surprised that anyone had dared start up a conversation. Unlike the nobles that filled the room, the speaker was armed. A heavy crossbow with which he seemed more than comfortable rested at his back. He had his hand out to shake, face split with a wide and patently false grin. No one was ever  _that_ happy to meet him. The dwarf shrugged and withdrew his hand when Cullen kept his arms folded.

"Your pardon?" Cullen’s eyes narrowed just before he opened his mouth to ask the unwelcome speaker to leave him in peace. The dwarf had a familiar face. "I've seen you before. Serah ...?"

"Varric Tethras, at your service.” The introduction had the sound of a well-practised phrase. “And you’re Knight-Captain Cullen, Meredith’s right hand. Last we met, you were terrorising templar recruits."

 _Maker_ _’s breath,_ Cullen thought with an internal sigh of exasperation _. I_ _’m still dealing with the chaos that caused. I don’t need these constant reminders._

"Now I recall. An associate of Hawke’s. I’ve seen you speaking to templars in the Gallows courtyard." Cullen added with a trace of distrust. Why the Gallows hadn’t been entirely closed off to the public years ago was completely beyond him. “I’m afraid I could not provide any information for you.”

"Information? I'm a merchant. Templars like to buy things just like anyone else." Varric nodded towards the throne. "I couldn't make this up. A Qunari invasion. A dead viscount. A dramatic showdown with the Arishok. This'll make quite the addition to the story." He smiled toothily. "You even turn up once or twice."

Cullen blinked, startled. "Andraste preserve me. Keep me out of whatever overblown work of fiction you plan on writing."

"Oh, don't you worry, Knight-Captain. This one's accurate .... mostly."

He murmured something under his breath that sounded uncannily like a comment Cullen had passed when he would have last seen the dwarf, three years ago.

 _Maker. I have a bad feeling about this._ “Somehow, I doubt that. Keep me out of it,” he repeated sharply. More than a few works by Varric Tethras of Kirkwall had mysteriously slipped into both the Circle’s and Templar Hall’s libraries over the years. Factual was not the impression he had gained from the titles. Cullen surveyed the crowd. “Where is Hawke?”

“She thought it might be better to avoid any more Templar attention for now. I decided to stick around for the show.”

Even knowing exactly why that would be the case, he couldn’t help but push _._ “Surely she should be happy to receive the gratitude of the Order.”

The dwarf snorted. “Ha. Don’t try that on me. I know you’ve had an eye on her for years. Your Knight-Commander did _not_ look happy to hand over that title.”

Cullen’s answering smile was utterly cold as he inclined his head to acknowledge the retort. “Indeed?”

"Andraste's ass! You Templars can be downright creepy sometimes.” The dwarf  muttered in an undertone. He waved a hand towards the throne. “Looks like your boss has something to say.”

Cullen looked across to the top of the throne room. Meredith had ascended the stairs and now stood on the dais just in front of the throne. She clasped her hands behind her back and stood to attention before surveying the people filling the hall. Her eyes passed briefly over Cullen where he stood near the back. Her expression was entirely inscrutable. It was impossible to guess what she intended.

She waited until total silence had fallen before addressing the crowd. “Kirkwall now has a champion. The Qunari invaders have been pushed back.” She swept another forbidding look over the silent crowd. “Inevitably, a battle has casualties. Viscount Dumar among them. We will mourn his death, but we must look to the future. Kirkwall needs a strong leader. One who is competent and understands the needs of the city. This is not a decision that can be rushed, lest Kirkwall suffer under ineffectual leadership. Now — of all times — that must be avoided. Therefore, in the interim, the Templar Order will maintain stewardship of the city until such a time as a suitable replacement can be found.” She smiled serenely down at the crowd as bewildered whispers broke out. “Order will be maintained in these troubled times.”

Cullen started at her pronouncement, then winced as the abrupt movement pulled at his rib. The Order was not supposed to interfere in political matters. Stewardship of a city — even if temporary — was a long way from the decision he would have expected. If nothing else, it set yet another burden of responsibilities on Meredith. There was more than enough to deal with in Kirkwall already.

Beside him, he could see that the dwarf had noted his slight twitch. He could feel the calculating look as the dwarf attempted to decipher the meaning of Cullen’s response.

Varric snorted. “Order, huh? Your Knight-Commander’s taking that a bit literally.”

Cullen frowned in the dwarf’s direction. “Keep unwelcome observations to yourself, Serah Tethras. The Order will ensure the city’s safety.” He nodded a curt farewell. He’d been polite long enough, it was past time to leave. “Good day.”

“Safety. Sure. Whatever you say, templar.”

The dwarf’s response was laced with an incredulity that added another niggling concern to join the others that lurked at the back of Cullen’s mind.

 _Follow your Knight-Commander,_ he reminded himself, _you know your duty, let her focus on the rest_. Whatever Meredith’s plans, it was quite clear that the effects of the Qunari attack would last long beyond this single night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stuck with me this far, congratulations, we've reached the end of Act 2!


	25. Brewing Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for another interlude in between the acts. (Edit: Minor update from the original upload adding an event in Solace 9:36 Dragon that should have been there previously.)

**Harvestmere 9:35 Dragon**

Kirkwall settled into a new rhythm in the wake of the Qunari crisis. One year on, and the damage had long since been repaired. The Qunari had been seen off to Par Vollen and — most surprising of all — an apology had been tendered by the Qunari leadership.

And stability had been enforced with a steel fist. Templar patrols hadn’t ever been an uncommon sight in Kirkwall, but glimpses of the Sword of Mercy had become ubiquitous everywhere but Darktown. No city authority dared obstruct Templar business any more.

~~~~

Cullen stood over the body of a mage. Another maleficar dead in the streets of Kirkwall, the blood that had powered his spells gathering in a sticky pool around him. His demonic minions slowly dissipated into the Fade. The air was unnaturally still and thin. Not even a faint breeze to brush his cheek.

He looked up, knowing he wouldn’t see the sandstone walls of yet another Kirkwall alleyway. An ocean of blood stretched out as far as he could see. High above, the sun flared a lurid purple. Solid beams of sunlight formed a familiar inescapable barrier around him.

He sank to his hands and knees in resigned weariness, blood dying his robes and armour a uniform red. The murky reflection that looked back at him wavered uncertainly between the hopeful templar he had once been and the  face he saw in the mirror now.

The congealed surface rippled and bulged all around him as countless figures bobbed up from under the surface. A sea of the dead as far as the eye could see.

He felt the touch of a cool hand caress his cheek and it was as if all the years hadn’t passed since the breaking of the Circle. He couldn’t suppress the shudder. His heart rate rose as he found his hands were stuck in place, immersed in a shallow pool of blood. Trapped twice over.

A familiar figure shimmered into view, blood pouring from around a sword — _his_ sword — through her chest to join the ocean around him. Despite the blood, her robes remained a pristine blue.

“Is this what you desire?” she asked in a deceptively tender voice.

 _Is it?_ He asked himself as he lurched awake with his racing heart attempting to escape his chest. _Is there part of me that still demands death?_ Any claim otherwise seemed weak given the evidence of recent years.

Cullen eased himself out of bed and paced over to his shelves. He ran a hand over the smooth surface of his lyrium kit and flipped open the lid. With precise and mechanical movements, he prepared his draught. The motions were so ingrained that he didn’t even need to think as he measured out the exacting dose.

He sat on the edge of his bed and swirled the half-measure of lyrium while he murmured his way through the Canticle of Benedictions. The heart-achingly pure blue shifted and tinted the walls with a gentle glow.

Despite his best efforts, the situation in Kirkwall was worsening daily. The Templar Order In Kirkwall was larger and stronger than it had ever been, and yet they were being worn down as each week brought another report of an abomination or maleficar. More would be lost next week, and the week after. Letters of condolence were beginning to blend into one.

 _In their blood the Maker's will is written. A fine job we_ _’re doing of abiding by that._

The first hints of dawn began to spill through his narrow window. He eyed the remainder of the lyrium vial. The half-measure lit the shelf with a bright gleam through the delicate glass of the vial. _Am I doing enough?_

He retrieved the vial with the remaining half-measure from the shelf. Its pure blue mixed with the more dilute glow of the prepared draught in his other hand. The Order required sacrifice. Demanded sacrifice. Perhaps his logic so many years ago had been flawed.

He added the remainder of the vial to his prepared draught. The full-measure slid down his throat with a beautifully searing burn that did nothing for the melancholy. Still. Duty called.

**Wintermarch 9:36 Dragon**

Meredith had begun to spend increasingly large amounts of time entirely out of contact. She had skipped the last two monthly meetings with the Circle’s senior leadership, leaving Cullen to conduct them alone. This one was no different. Cullen sat at the head of a long table in a meeting room in the Circle. Arrayed along each side, the Circle’s Senior Enchanters bickered and sniped at each other. Orsino sat back in his own chair opposite Cullen and watched. And behind them, against the walls of the meeting room, the solid presence of impassive templars.

Cullen massaged his temple against an encroaching headache. The standard topics for the meeting had long since devolved — yet again — into an argument on continued high security in the Circle. This particular dispute had been triggered by the massed ranks of templar steel that had been assigned to the Circle’s Firstday celebrations a few days ago.

He rapped his knuckles against the table-top with the hard sound of metal on wood. “Enough.” He snapped. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as every eye turned to him with hostility. “There is no debate to be had here. We are not required to answer to you.” He nodded to indicate the templars against the walls. “The double watch and curfew will remain in force until the security threat has been addressed.”

As much strain as it put on the Order’s own resources. Going on for three years at this high level of tension gave no one a chance to rest. The arguments generated by the templar forces stationed out of the Viscount’s Keep for the past year and a half didn’t help much either. What had originally been a temporary measure whilst the guard recovered from their losses had become a semi-permanent garrison and a permanent headache.

Orsino leaned forwards in his chair. He alone of the mages in the room made an attempt to keep his tone even and courteous. “Meredith should be here to argue the point. I think we can _all_ agree on that.” His look at Cullen was particularly pointed. “But she’s not here.” He looked theatrically around the room and the politeness faded. “We haven’t seen her at one of these meetings in three months now. I can only assume she’s in Kirkwall. Again. Will she grace us with her presence, or will she continue to hide behind you? These decisions are not yours to make, after all.”

“The Knight-Commander and I are of the same opinion in this.” Cullen replied tightly, and instantly regretted giving even the slightest implication that it might not always be the case. “Unknown forces entered the Circle on multiple occasions. Until that threat has been neutralised, the security measures must remain.”

Orsino shrugged helplessly. “Do not be surprised then, if we continue to protest against Meredith’s restrictions on us.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. Orsino’s feigned helplessness was a flimsy facade. The First Enchanter was more than capable of putting a halt to complaints. He just chose not to in pursuit of his feud with Meredith. Cullen couldn’t fail to note that Orsino had placed a heavy emphasis on Meredith’s role rather than that of the Order in general, or even of Cullen’s part in the decision. Meredith and Orsino’s antagonistic relationship had long since degenerated into outright animosity. _Surely there must be some balance between Greagoir and Irving_ _’s leniency and Meredith and Orsino’s enmity?_

“I urge you all to maintain the peace,” he replied sharply. With a wave of his hand, he took in the Circle’s senior leadership. “The rest of the Circle will follow your lead. If stability cannot be maintained, we will have no choice but to enforce it by taking more serious action.”

The image of every one of the mages’ faces with a tranquil brand flickered in his mind for a moment. He couldn’t fail to note that the supposed last resort had become rather common. After all, it had been his own hand on the brand when Meredith demanded it of him.

The comment was not welcome. There were a handful of dissatisfied mutters. A few of the Senior Enchanters leaned forwards, more than ready to begin their arguments anew.

Orsino gestured the Senior Enchanters back. He met Cullen’s eyes from across the table and nodded in recognition. “You know I understand that. But right now, your ‘peace’ is being enforced at the end of a blade. In the Circle and in Kirkwall.” He shook his head angrily and a touch of sarcasm leaked into his voice. “Forgive me if I take issue with that.”

Cullen’s gaze snapped to the door with irritation as a templar slipped into the room and strode up to him. The man leaned down to whisper his message.

“There’s a situation down at the docks, Knight-Captain.”

 _The docks?_ _This month_ _’s lyrium shipment is due today_. Cullen turned a concerned frown to the messenger. “Can it wait?”

“I’m afraid not, Ser. I couldn’t find the Knight-Commander.” Cullen could swear the man seemed grateful for that. The templar’s eyes flickered to the prying looks of mages around the table, clearly reluctant to give more detail. “It’s urgent.”

He stood and nodded a curtly polite farewell to Orsino. “If you would excuse me, First Enchanter, Senior Enchanters, we must reconvene at a later date. An urgent matter has been brought to my attention.”

Orsino’s grim voice carried out to Cullen as he left the meeting room. “My argument is not wholly with you, Knight-Captain. Meredith guides the blade. But remember, we will not stand idle.”

Cullen pulled the messenger into a quiet side corridor. “What’s the issue?”

The messenger gulped and pulled himself to attention. “Someone destroyed some of this month’s lyrium shipment, Ser.”

Cullen bit back a particularly virulent oath. He heaved in a calming breath. “How much did we lose?”

The man’s eyes focused above Cullen’s head. “Two crates, Knight-Captain. The area’s cordoned off, but well, there’s lyrium all over the docks.”

Cullen closed his eyes for a long moment. That number was almost painful to hear. That was a fifth of their shipment, and the next wouldn’t arrive for another month. Now they would need to enforce a rationing system until it arrived. He began to regret increasing his lyrium dosage back up to the recommended amount.

“Maker,” he exhaled. “The tranquil will have to clear it.” It certainly wouldn’t be safe for the affirmed to deal with a lyrium spill, and there was no chance he would subject any templars to that strain. “Speak to the castellan, he’ll direct you to those that assist in maintaining the Circle.”

The templar heaved out a sigh of relief when he though Cullen wasn’t looking. “Right away, Ser.”

The meeting could wait. Cullen swept out of the Circle and out into the weak daylight of a murky Kirkwall winter. Easy to forget it was daytime when stuck in the confines of a Circle meeting room.

The docks were calm and ordered only on the surface. The tense postures were obvious on every templar assigned to oversee the arrival of the shipment. Their commanding officer strode over him, looking ashen.

“I’m glad you’re here, Ser. I can only apologise. He somehow managed to conceal himself where we wouldn’t spot him.”

“Take me to him.”

The Knight-Corporal hesitated. “And the lyrium, Ser? Some of my men are worried.”

“It will be handled.” Maker knew how, but it would have to be handled.

He passed through the cordon into the isolated section of the docks. The ozone scent and hum of lyrium filled the air. The undamaged crates had already been removed to the security of the Gallows vaults under Mother Anastase’s eagle eye. But the two shattered crates still sat on the dockside. It was a heart-wrenching sight to see them leaking a pool of brilliant glowing blue into the ocean.

Off to one side, a man in nondescript clothing sat under guard on a stone wall. On spotting Cullen, he shot up. His guards grabbed him by either arm to prevent him from lurching forwards.

“I’m no mage. You don’t have the authority to hold me here, templar,” he spat.

“No? The Gallows is Chantry property under the protection of the Templar Order. We are the only authority here.” He inclined his head in the direction of the smashed crates. “Did the mage underground send you to do this?”

The man laughed. “I don’t work for anyone.”

Cullen’s answering smile was cold. “No one is foolish enough to antagonise the Order for no reason. If not the underground, then who?”

“No one.” He struggled to loosen himself from the iron grip that held him back. “I know how this works. You have to hand me to the Guard.”

Cullen looked him up and down icily. “Mundane crime _is_ usually handled by the City Guard. We will hand you over to them, but we are understandably busy at the moment.” Exaggerated or not, the Gallows had a grim reputation. Might as well use it to his advantage. He looked over his shoulder to where the Gallows loomed above. “You will have to be held here until the Guard can be summoned. I’m well acquainted with Guard Captain Vallen, I have no doubt she would understand the delay.”

As a matter of fact, she most decidedly would not. He’d send for someone to get the man off his hands by the end of the day, but perhaps the threat would convince him to reveal some information.

“You can’t do that!”

“Do you have something to offer in exchange?”

The man leaned back and attempted to fold his arms. “’fraid not.”

“Holding cells it is.” Cullen gestured the Knight-Corporal to one side and lowered his voice. “Take him to Templar Hall’s cells. Send one of your men to summon the Guard after the mid afternoon bell.”

He returned to his office, passing Meredith’s sealed door. She had business in the Viscount’s keep today, much as Orsino had suspected. He ignored Orsino’s raised eyebrow as he passed the First Enchanter’s open door. It was too much to hope that news of the lost lyrium could be contained, but Cullen had no intention of starting the rumours himself. Orsino rolled his eyes and turned back to the book he had been reading.

Cullen sat at his desk and sighed at the pile of paper gathered there. He would gave their captive time to stew and worry what rumours of the Circle’s holding cells might be true. It gave him time to begin the unpleasant task of planning a rationing system to last five hundred templars through to next month’s lyrium shipment. It could be done. The youngest templars would likely not notice a dramatic difference at a reduced dosage. He himself had used a half dose for years. But templars already struggling at full dosage would be driven straight into withdrawal’s cruel embrace. An entire month of discomfort. And it would be impossible to know who might be effected worst. No one admitted when they were struggling until it became so obvious that they had to be retired from active duties.

The cold steel of his gauntlets massaged away a full-blown headache as he reread his completed plan. A complex system allocating lyrium rations by age. _Maker preserve me. This will not help manage the unrest in the Gallows._

Destroying the entire shipment would have crippled them. A chilling thought. But even mild withdrawal made templars irritable. Irritable templars would be even more prone to cause problems. Now though, he was left with the likelihood of increased aggression from Templar forces. Likely not the original plan of whomever had planned this attack.

He swept out of his office with a sigh. Perhaps their captive might find himself more willing to talk after a few hours in the cells. Anything to point them in the right direction would be helpful.

The man had been stashed in a particularly miserable corner of Templar Hall’s cells. He blinked rapidly as Cullen opened the cell door and leaned against the door frame. His flinch was obvious as his eyes flicked from Cullen’s booted feet to his folded arms.

“You never did introduce yourself.”

“Forgive me if courtesy wasn’t a high priority earlier,” Cullen responded dryly. “I am Knight-Captain Cullen, second in command here at the Gallows.”

“Oh. A pleasure.” A nervous smile flickered over his face before he retreated back to defiance. “Whatever fancy titles you have, I’ve got nothing to say to you,” he added with feigned indifference.

Distantly, Cullen heard the sound of the mid-afternoon bell. His fingers tapped a restless beat on his vambrace. If he couldn’t convince the man to reveal any information now, he would have to wait until the Guard questioned him.

“You claim you didn’t work with anyone. But finding the schedule for lyrium shipments to the Gallows is no easy task. A lot of effort for minimal reward.”

“Maybe I just don’t like the Templar Order.”

Cullen nodded. “That is a popular viewpoint. Once, we held a little more trust.” He looked down at where the man sat on the bedroll and his voice became cold. “But you’ll have to be a little more convincing.”

The man’s apprehensive glance over Cullen was more obvious this time. “It won’t work.”

“What won’t?” Cullen snapped irritably.

“I’ve been beaten before.” The defiance was slightly spoiled by the way he edged into the far corner of the cell.

“I don’t plan on beating you,” he replied grimly. It was still a hard thing to acknowledge that the Order wasn’t perfect. It had been rare, but it was another practice he had been wilfully blind to until recently. Maker knew if he had managed to curb it now.

To Cullen’s surprise, the man blanched. Clearly he had taken the reassurance as the threat of something worse. “It won’t work,” he repeated faintly.

“How did you know when the shipment would arrive?”

“Will you release me?”

“Do you have information?” Cullen countered.

The man spent a long moment thinking. “Not much. I was given a date and told to destroy as much of your lyrium as I could. There’s a woman out by the docks who used to have odd jobs. She’s long gone by now.”

Cullen nodded again. It matched other information they had gathered, and was next to useless. As he had said, the mystery contact was nowhere to be found. “Your cooperation is appreciated. The guard will be here to pick you up shortly.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. You said it would take time.”

Cullen smirked and closed the cell door. “So I did.”

The Guards’ arrival was just slow enough to drive home the point that they didn’t operate at the Order’s beck and call. The Guard Captain herself arrived at the Gallows. She inspected their prisoner with a penetrating look.

“No damage. That makes a change.” She sighed when she took a closer look at the man’s face before he was hauled away. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I recognise him. Freelancer out of Darktown.” She gave Cullen a sidelong glance. “I don’t expect that surprises you much.”

“Not at all.”

“Charges?”

“Trespass. Destruction of Chantry property.”

An eyebrow lifted. “What are we talking here? Did he spit on a banner, or was it something more serious?”

Cullen thought back to the pool of lyrium casting a soft gleam in the shadows of the docks. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Unfortunately, I cannot say what. Suffice to say the value was upwards of one thousand Gold.”

The other eyebrow joined the first. “Right. More serious.” There was only one conclusion she could draw from that rough value. The City Guard would have a more than passing familiarity with the value of the lyrium trade, black-market or otherwise. “I’m surprised you didn’t decide to handle this yourself.”

“City authority still applies, and he’s not an apostate,” Cullen responded firmly. “I trust you to ensure he is properly sentenced, Guard Captain.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Knight-Captain. First step to getting people to trust the Guard is to make sure crimes are punished.” Her fist thumped into her palm to emphasise the point. “Anyway, your Knight-Commander has oversight of all major crimes in Kirkwall. She’ll get final say in this case. I don’t think he’ll be seeing daylight anytime soon.”

Cullen smiled slightly. The Guard Captain had done admirably well this time in concealing her distaste at the current state of affairs. It was the main reason he hadn’t seen a need to consult with Meredith. She would see the case in an environment more suited to prosecuting mundane crime than the Gallows.

“Anyway. I’ll get him off your hands before you lot change your minds.” The Guard Captain sigh could have been audible from the upper floors of the Circle. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope not to see you soon. I have more than enough templars interfering in Kirkwall these days as it is.”

Cullen smirked. That was more like what he had expected from the Guard Captain. “Likewise, Guard Captain.”

He escorted the Guard out of the Gallows himself and watched the ferry leave. The man knew nothing, just like all the underground’s other proxies. They had caught one such person attempting to frame Knight-Lieutenant Conrad for lyrium smuggling and murder, a ridiculous pair of accusations. But if they hadn’t stopped the attempt, an experienced member of the Order would have faced dishonourable discharge at best. Even in their reduced state, the underground would remain dangerous until every last outpost was shut down.

**Bloomingtide 9:36 Dragon**

Another of Mia’s letters rested on his desk when he arrived back from duties in Kirkwall that day. He had sent only one brief message a few months after the Qunari conflict. What else was there to say? That another patrol had gone missing and had been traced to the hideout of a blood mage? That he had killed that blood mage?

Still, the letters were a comforting reminder of a more peaceful life and a person he had once been. He sliced open the plain seal and sat down to read the letter.   

>   _Cullen,_
> 
> _I suppose it_ _’s too much to ask that you might deign to respond to any of my last messages? I’m sure things have settled down since the Qunari conflict, so you might actually be able to find the time. Would you believe, South Reach has only recently received the news? There was plenty of talk about how impressed everyone was that the ‘fearsome oxmen’ were defeated so easily. I wonder, have you met this Champion of Kirkwall? Naturally, there’s a lot more emphasis on what she did rather than the Order. You tried to downplay your efforts, but I know you, Cullen. You wouldn’t have stood by when people needed protecting._
> 
> _I hate to rely on what little news from the Free Marches we get here. Stories seem to be rather exaggerated once they reach our remote corner of Ferelden. Your letters are always welcome when they arrive._
> 
> _Branson has decided that village life might not be for him. He joked that he might become a Templar and come join you in Kirkwall._
> 
> _…_

Most of the time his responses, if they were ever sent, were months apart. This time, he rushed to grab a fresh sheet of paper before he had even finished reading the letter.   

> _Mia,_
> 
> _Even were Branson not too old, please do not let him even consider joining the Order. I could not in good conscience recommend it. I beg of you all. Stay in South Reach._

His quill hovered over the page. There was really nothing more he could say that didn’t reveal just how tense the situation in Kirkwall had become. Even her question about the Champion could not be answered easily. _Yes, I know her. She is an apostate we cannot bring to the Circle. An enemy and an ally of the Order. One of her friends is another apostate, almost certainly more dangerous than she is, on whom I have assigned a permanent watch._

He finished the letter with what little neutral news he could find. Regardless of the protests in her previous messages, he sealed more coin in with the letter. It wasn’t much, but it was hardly like he had the opportunity or inclination to spend what little he did receive.

**Solace 9:36 Dragon**

Cullen set the shattered sword down on the table in front of the tranquil.

The tranquil looked down at the ruined weapon, “I would prefer if templars did not damage their equipment so often.”

“As would I,” he replied dryly. He indicated the sword, “Can it be repaired, Maddox? I cannot be without weapons.”

If the tranquil were prone to emotional outbursts, there was no doubt this one would have done so. “This cannot be repaired, Knight-Captain. A replacement will be required.”

 _Hardly surprising_ , Cullen thought as he fingered the fragments. The sword had served him well for years. But even high-quality steel couldn’t withstand the abrupt changes in temperature that resulted from the combined attacks of a despair and rage demon.

“Might I commission a replacement to my own specification?”

“The Knight-Commander has commissioned a new sword of her own. The task is highly complex. New equipment cannot be crafted for you until it is complete. I will require another two weeks, Knight-Captain.”

“Two _weeks_? I cannot be confined to the Gallows for that long.”

The Tranquil simply blinked placidly at him. Cullen sighed. “Fine. Perhaps you have some suitable spares?”

**Kingsway 9:36 Dragon**

The confined spaces of Darktown’s sewers rang with the sound of drawn steel. This was their grand assault. The hub of mage underground activities. It had taken long months of investigation and eliminating one outpost after another. Strike here, and the mage underground would finally be crippled.

Cullen opened a box containing a selection of mages’ phylacteries. Five vials nestled inside the padded interior. He skimmed the names. Halene. Jeumaris. Braun. Feynriel. Luther.

Three were faint enough to be almost dull, the apostates likely long gone from Kirkwall. Feynrield had caused the greatest suspicion, after his illness had suddenly cured itself, but it seemed he had fled too far, too fast. The remaining two glowed a brilliant red. Two Circle apostates. It was impossible to guess whether there were other apostates. He snapped the lid shut and nodded to Meredith. Her answering smile was a predatory baring of teeth.

She raised her voice to address the force they had led to this forsaken corner of Kirkwall. “We face an epicentre of rebellion against the Maker’s will here. Such actions cannot and will not be allowed to continue.” She drew her greatsword with a flourish and stepped into the darkened tunnel entrance ahead. “It is a mercy to eliminate every last one of them before they can do any further harm.”

The first chamber was wide and lit by the unsteady flicker of greasy torches. There was a sudden tumult of noise as every person in the room spotted the templar forces that advanced in perfect ranks. The air near vibrated to Cullen’s ears as every templar raised a denial of magic at almost the same instant.

The motley collection of mercenaries and underground members scrambled to their feet and mounted a desperate defence. They fell quickly.

Four low tunnels led off the central chamber. Meredith snapped out crisp orders to split off and cut off any attempt at retreat.

Another pair of mercenaries almost ran onto Cullen’s sword as he led the way through the farthest tunnel entrance. The first was laid low with a crippling strike to the gut, the second with a precise strike through the unprotected armpit. Even plate had its weaknesses.

He stepped over the fallen bodies and advanced down the featureless passageway. Another trio of assailants leapt at them out of a blind tunnel. One — a mage judging by the rough crystal mounted to his staff — slammed into the templar beside Cullen, reduced to physical attacks without his access to magic. The templar redirected the assault and threw the mage to the floor before finishing him.

The other two fell almost as quickly, but not before a heavy mace crushed the breastplate of one templar. He dropped like a stone, wheezing through a crushed chest.

“Stay with him,” Cullen snapped out to one of his group.

He flipped open the phylactery box. A vial that had previously held a brilliant glow was completely dull. He shook his head in resignation and led the way forwards.

The passed another few occasional blind tunnels — these ones empty — before reaching a low doorway. He pushed through the curtain covering the entrance, his reinforcements close on his heels. The chamber on the other side was long and high-ceilinged, dryer than the rest of the inevitably dank sewer chambers. A few rough cots and scattered belongings lined the chamber. Cullen caught a flicker of movement and snapped his gaze over to the shadowed corner. A man in the dusty robes of a Circle mage retreated to the far end of the room with a whimper. Out of range of the templars’ silencing influence.

“No. This can’t be possible. They said the templars would never find this place.”

Cullen held up a fist to stop the advance of the templars behind him. He sheathed his sword and raised his empty hand, palm out.

He attempted a soothing tone of voice. “This doesn’t have to end in blood, Luther. Return to the Circle and you’ll be safe.”

“Safe? In the Circle?! I was going to be made tranquil!” His incredulous laugh was high and brittle. He clapped a hand over his mouth to cut off the uncomfortable sound.

Cullen kept his expression neutral. The mage wasn’t entirely wrong. The decision hadn’t been made, but Meredith had listed him for investigation.

Behind him, there was a rattle as the templars that had followed him drew closer. He hissed a warning for them to stay out of view. In his panic, the mage was infinitely dangerous. Provoking him could not go well. Even if one of the escapees was dead, they could still retrieve this one safely.

Cullen slid a step closer. A few feet more and he could deny the mage access to the Fade entirely. At this distance, it was impossible to read the mage's intentions.

The mage’s eyes flickered from Cullen to the armed templars behind him. “I know what happens to apostates.” He laughed brittlely again. The sound echoed for far too long and warped to something darker, angrier.

Cullen threw himself prone just in time to dodge the stream of white-hot fire that burst from between his palms. Two of the templars behind him didn’t react fast enough. The beam scorched right through one and boiled the other in her own armour.

A warped foot appeared in Cullen’s vision. He rolled to one side just in time to avoid another beam of searing flame. The heat was enough to instantly dry every drop of sweat on his body.

The abomination leapt over Cullen towards the more immediate threat. He heard a crack as it threw a templar against a wall. Magic hissed in the air as columns of flame struck out all around the abomination and incinerated the closest templar. The man’s screams drowned out the hissing rattle of the abomination.

He pushed himself up just in time to see its impossibly sharp claws slice through another templar’s breastplate like paper. It followed with another strike and — with a flaming hand buried in his chest — lifted the limp body to throw it to one side. The body skidded until it was stopped by the opposite wall.

Cullen darted forwards just as the final templar ducked under another blow. Cullen’s sword pierced the abomination’s side. The wound oozed thick black blood that steamed in the cool air of the chamber. It howled deafeningly loudly and spun around to swipe at him. He caught the strike on his shield, giving the other templar chance to land his own strike. The abomination lashed out again, catching the templar with a glancing blow that knocked him to the floor.

With the abomination still focused on the fallen templar, Cullen drew on lyrium to call down a smite. There was a loud crack and burst of white light. The abomination stumbled and dropped to a knee right beside the fallen templar. It took the opportunity to swipe again, flames flickering from its talons, and caught his leg before he could roll away.

Cullen drew his sword back. The blade hummed through the air and separated the abomination’s head from its body. The warped corpse collapsed with a thud. Its hissing rattle cut out to leave sudden silence punctuated only by their ragged breathing.

Cullen whispered a prayer as he checked the bodies. Another five dead to an abomination. Another apostate Circle mage choosing death over the Circle.

“Thank the Maker,” the fallen templar gasped as he pulled himself out from under the abomination’s corpse. He tried to push himself to his feet before Cullen waved him back down. “I’m fine, Ser,” he protested.

Cullen crouched to look at the deep gash on the man’s leg and frowned. About the only positive point was that the flame had effectively cauterised the wound. “You’re not. Stay here and bind that leg. I’ll head onwards. That’s an order.”

He advanced down the dank tunnel, alert for any faint sounds that might indicate someone nearby. At this distance, the noise of combat from elsewhere was faint. But any other sound would be distinctive against the humming melody of lyrium.

The occasional flickering torch blackened the stone with its greasy flames. Cullen choked back a cough as the acrid smoke caught in his lungs. Where the rough stone wasn’t marked by stains from cheap torches, it glistened with dampness or crawled with mould. Without mage healers, everyone hiding down here ought to have died of some illness long ago. It was a sign of their desperation that they were willing to even consider such harmful surroundings. With his movement as silent as he could make it, he progressed down to the end of the tunnel until it opened out into a circular chamber.

The room was barely lit and crowded with crates. A table sat at the room’s midpoint, right below the highest point of the vaulted ceiling. He walked in cautiously and looked down at the papers scattered across the table. The wick of one candle still emitted a faint wisp of smoke and beyond the table, a battered chair lay on its side.

From somewhere behind Cullen there was a whistling sound. He stepped neatly to one side just in time to dodge the overhead strike of a staff. The weighted end hit the table with a resounding crack.

Cullen whipped around and rammed his shield forwards to knock his attacker backwards. A brief ripple of light illuminated the room in a vibrant blue, absorbing most of the impact so that she barely moved. A magical barrier, cast before Cullen’s approach had blocked her access to the Fade.

Cullen launched himself forwards and drew on the lyrium singing in his blood to summon a burst of cleansing energy. The barrier shattered and filled the air with the smell of free mana. Another whistling strike from the staff dented his shield. He snapped out a kick that bent the attacker’s knee sideways with a sharp crunch. She howled and tumbled to the floor.

Cullen kicked away the staff. The heavy spiked end would have been perfect against a man in plate armour. The dent in his shield and numb arm were testament to that. If his attacker hadn’t been a mage, reliant on magic for defence, she might have succeeded.

The woman choked out a pained laugh. “Well, well. Knight-Captain Cullen. Knight-Commander Meredith’s fist, here in person.” She winced as she tried to haul herself away. “I’m sure the Maker is proud of you for all the mages you’ve killed.”

“Maleficarum,” Cullen corrected absently. With the point of his sword, he sifted through the papers on the desk, half an eye on the prone mage. She wouldn’t be going anywhere with that shattered knee. Bone and heavy steel boots were not a good combination. But she might still be dangerous, even without access to the Fade. “You lead the mage underground?”

“No one does.” She pushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes and attempted a glare. “There are plenty of others to replace me.”

Cullen smiled in brief amusement at her defiant lie before peering closer at a piece of paper that looked rather like the schedule of lyrium shipments to the Gallows. Useless ever since he had increased security. “I doubt that. We’ve eliminated all the other outposts.”

“So you have.” She propped herself up against a nearby crate, broken leg stretched out uselessly in front of her. A disgusted sneer crossed her face as she looked Cullen over. “Stop gloating at your victory and kill me already.”

At that, Cullen did turn to face her fully again. “Under authority granted to me as a Knight-Captain in the Templar Order, you will be taken to the Kirkwall Circle of Magi, apostate.”

She chuckled and then spat to one side. “I’ve lived too long free to join a Circle.” She lifted one hand and inspected the palm. Her whispered words were barely audible. “Might as well take a few of you scum down with me.”

Too late, Cullen saw the deep cut that oozed a steady stream of blood. The unnatural flow wove a complex pattern in between her fingers instead of dripping to the floor. His heart dropped.

Thick streamers of blood lashed out, their tendrils skimming across his raised shield. He fended off one streamer only for another to shoot around his defence and pierce through the fine links of chainmail on his arm. Cullen’s heart fluttered and his eyes drooped as the blood magic pulled at him. His muscles began to waver as the streamer of blood pulsed and shimmered wetly.

A series of sickening snaps echoed through the room and the prone mage’s knee forced itself back into place. Cullen gasped in pain as the streamer of blood retreated with a sharp whip crack.

But instead of standing, the mage’s eyes rolled to the back of her head. The temperature in the room dropped and Cullen’s skin crawled as her body began to bulge and contort, bony spars tearing through layers of skin and cloth. Heavy talons tore through her fingertips with a wet pop.

It might have succeeded. But she had miscalculated. Her subtle inching away hadn’t put enough distance between her and Cullen. With a lurch, Cullen stumbled forwards. His sword thrust was more a fall than a proper strike, but it worked. The full weight of his armoured body forced the sword through its heart before the abomination could tear him to shreds. The grinding sound of warping flesh and bone cut out instantly and the abomination slumped back to the floor, the light fading from its eyes.

The effort was too much for Cullen’s weakened muscles and he collapsed to the floor. His arms shuddered, barely able to hold his weight. He pulled himself over to edge of the room and braced himself against a crate. When that attempt to push himself back to a standing position failed, he sat and focused on his tight breathing. His arms barely had the strength to pull off his helm and push back sweat-soaked hair. The cool air on his face helped, even if it was unpleasantly still and close. Not tainted with the smell of rotting corpses, at least. _Thank the Maker for small mercies._

He would recover, the years of experience and training told him that. A templar could shake off the effects of blood magic faster than others. He closed his eyes and drew on familiar mental exercises. It took a few minutes, accompanied by the measured cadence of the Chant, but eventually, the strength returned to Cullen’s limbs. He whispered out a grateful prayer and this time managed to push himself back to his feet. The weight of his armour still seemed double what it should be, but it was an improvement. He almost toppled again and his heart pounded as if he’d sprinted a mile in full armour when he reached down to retrieve his sword.

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered into the still air. The lingering weakness was infuriating. At least the hum of lyrium was a comforting constant. He almost laughed. Compared to some of the exercises to develop mental focus he had faced during training, maintaining enough concentration for a denial of magic in the face of mercenaries, an abomination or two, and a blood mage was trivial. That sobered him again. Of course, not everyone had been quite so dedicated in that aspect of training. More than one templar had died when they lost their focus.

Another deep breath, and he strode back out into the tunnel. He ducked back into the first chamber, cautious for any attackers that might have been missed the first time. The injured templar had dragged himself away from the warped corpse of the abomination and had done his best to bind his wound. Cullen helped him up and helped him limp back into the main chamber, weakened muscles protesting the whole way.

By the time they entered the main chamber, the remainder of the hideout had been cleared. Meredith stood at the centre of the room surveying the damage. Her gaze homed in on him with barely restrained anger that disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared. He clamped down on another errant tremble.

“Report.”

“Unfortunately, both Circle escapees were killed. But I discovered shipping manifests. Schedules for the Kirkwall and Gallows docks. Payment slips. I would assume that was how they helped so many mages escape.”

She nodded sharply. “No doubt you are correct.” She paused for a moment and looked over the chamber once more. “Burn it all.”

Cullen blinked in confusion. “Knight-Commander? We might be able to track-”

“Burn it,” she repeated, cutting him off. “The mage underground has been eliminated. We cannot divert our focus from Kirkwall.”

“I don’t-” Baffled, he shook his head and bit off the objection. “As you order, Knight-Commander.”

He turned back briefly to look at Meredith as he stalked away to destroy evidence that might help them retrieve apostate mages. She continued to survey the room, hands resting lightly on the pommel of her bloodied greatsword. _What in Andraste_ _’s name is going on?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character progression over a seven year timeline is hard, especially when you’re taking someone from late teens to adulthood. By this point, Cullen is so good at pretending he’s OK that he even has himself convinced most of the time.
> 
> I had fun trying to work out how much lyrium the Gallows needs per month and how much it might cost. Conclusion: the Chantry/Circle has a ridiculous amount of money.
> 
> The relationship between templars and lyrium is a mini obsession of mine. I think it’s interesting to have perspectives on what it means to various templars (and, you could argue, how they rationalise their addiction). The in-game inspiration for part of this chapter may be obvious.
> 
> For reference: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Letter:_How_to_Frame_a_Templar . I assume the mission doesn’t go so well if Hawke didn’t do it.
> 
> I do feel mildy guilty about the end, but I can’t claim that templars were the good guys in DA2. And it’s not like Cullen wouldn’t have participated in dismantling the mage underground. In my defence, I don’t think the mage underground were perfect either (who was in Kirkwall?).


	26. Burning Bridges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Act 3. This one should be fun. I have plans that won't be pretty for anyone involved.

**19 th Wintermarch 9:37 Dragon**

The pull of magic filled the air. A wall of ice materialised, seemingly rising from the flagstones with a crackle, torchlight glinting off its smooth surfaces and catching in its crystalline depths. The flow of magic changed, and the wall shattered into fragments of ice that were brought to a sharp stop in the air. Just as abruptly, the shards dropped neatly into a wide basin.

“Well done!” called the Enchanter from behind her protective barrier.

The apprentice’s cheerful grin was visible from across the room as he stowed his staff back in the rack.

Cullen drew in a steadying breath from his position against the far wall and recrossed his arms. Even now, it took an abundance of self-control to ignore the combined compulsion of instinct and training that demanded he react.

“I assume this apprentice isn’t your cause for concern,” he murmured to Knight-Lieutenant Rost beside him.

The man gave Cullen a small shake of his head and responded in an equally subdued tone. “No, Ser. I’d suggest you recommend him to the Knight-Commander for his Harrowing. The First Enchanter should have no reason to refuse.” A minute nod indicated the apprentice just standing to take his place. “The next apprentice is … not so accomplished.”

As was to be expected, the gathered apprentices were almost totally indifferent to the four Knights-Templar spaced about the hall. Even Cullen and Rost’s arrival hadn’t earned more than a vaguely inquisitive glance. Most were old enough to be fast approaching their Harrowing. Increased attention would be no surprise. But the next apprentice spared an uncharacteristically long look for the pair of them. Judging by his expression, he was desperate to hear their muted conversation.

Ever so briefly, the Enchanter’s gaze flickered over to Cullen and Rost before returning to the apprentice. She pointed to a barrel. “Winter’s grasp on the barrel, please.”

The most basic of formal cold spells in the elemental school, unlike a solid wall of ice. Perhaps the Enchanter was also concerned.

The apprentice took his place and twirled his staff experimentally. His shoulders rose and fell as he took in a deep breath. With a gesture, the barrel was encased in a coating of ice. The surface was clouded and pocked with air bubbles, but it was steady. Not an issue. It might simply mean he had little talent in the school. Until his magic pulsed fitfully. The barrel emitted a threatening groan. Its staves flexed as conflicting flows pulled at it.

Now the straining instincts played to his advantage. Cullen quickly drew on lyrium and silenced the flow of magic before shards of wood ripped into the apprentice or observers. Belatedly, the other templars reacted before dropping the denial of magic along with Cullen.

The Enchanter’s hand raised abortively to cast a shield around the barrel, reflexes not quite on par with those of the templars. She frowned as she met Cullen’s gaze from across the room. “So many observers do not make for a good learning environment,” she protested with the vaguest hint of irritation.

Cullen looked pointedly at the complement of Knights-Templar around the room. Everyone in the Circle had lived under a double watch for three years now. And Templar observation of apprentices was hardly uncommon. He raised his voice. “I apologise for the imposition. But please, continue as if we weren’t here.”

He turned back to Rost and lowered his voice. “This can’t happen all the time, or he’d have been recommended for Tranquility long ago.”

“Again, please,” the Enchanter called out.

This time the spell settled steadily on the barrel, although the icy surface was still marred by imperfections. The Enchanter called out praise as Cullen and Rost looked on neutrally.

“He has consistently performed poorly, Ser, but not enough to draw too much attention. This is a recent problem. And he’s the son of a noble. Even in the Circle, that can mean something.”

In his early days as Knight-Captain, he might have leapt straight to recommending Tranquility. Arguably, age and experience had moderated that reaction to a more reasoned approach. There might be more to the situation.

“Not possession or blood magic, thank the Maker. He’d have improved, not become worse.” Rost nodded his agreement with the conclusion. “Check if he’s had any recent conflicts in the Circle. Or perhaps he has recently become estranged from his family. Look into it. And keep close watch over him in the meantime,” he warned.

“As ordered, Knight-Captain.” Rost saluted precisely.

He and Rost watched the remainder of the lesson with the occasional murmured exchange. It was never wise to make it too obvious who was receiving closer observation. But the rest passed entirely routinely, if unpleasantly for Cullen’s nerves. Apprentices were the worst when it came to unpredictable magic. Finally, every one of the small clutch of apprentices had demonstrated their proficiency — or lack thereof — with cold elemental magic.

The Enchanter ushered the apprentices and their escort out once the lesson was complete until only she, Cullen, and Rost remained in the training hall. She puttered about for a minute, tidying away a few stray items whilst Cullen and Rost finished their discussion. Finally, when the room was ordered enough to satisfy even the most exacting templar’s standards, she strode up to them, arms folded to reflect Cullen’s posture.

“If you’re here for Vincent, he’s not a problem, Knight-Captain. He’s just been going through a rough patch recently.”

“I’m just here to observe, Enchanter, not to accuse,” Cullen answered blandly. “I’m sure you’d report problems if any were to exist. Wouldn’t you?”

She snorted disbelievingly and strode out of the room after the apprentices.

There was the rare suggestion of a smirk across Rost’s face. “I’m not sure she would report anything unless an apprentice burnt the Gallows down.”

“Optimism, Ser Rost?”

The smirk widened slightly. “Perhaps not even then.”

“It’s likely,” Cullen sighed. “But she will have had the most experience with this apprentice. You might want to speak to her to see what she meant by a ‘rough patch’. I won’t recommend the Rite unnecessarily.” _Maker knows there are quite enough Tranquil here as it is._

“I’ll see what I can do, Ser.”

They left the training hall as the next clutch of apprentices was escorted in for their lesson. Cullen raised an eyebrow at the sight of Thrask waiting just outside. He bid a curt farewell to Rost before striding over.

“I do believe your assignment is still in the Gallows courtyard, Ser Thrask.”

“It is, Ser,” Thrask acknowledged. He offered the piece of paper clutched in his hand. “Ser Corin mentioned you might be found here. Knight-Lieutenant Parrist sent me.”

He didn’t quite manage to keep the dissatisfaction out of his tone. Thrask had been a Knight-Corporal almost before Cullen had been born. Enduring that stagnation had to be quite the task. Others of his dedication would have been promoted long ago.

Cullen skimmed the note. “This is the second sanction for poor conduct in recent months. One more and you face demotion.”

“I’m aware of that, Ser.” Thrask clasped his hands behind his back. “It is my understanding that speaking to a mage should not be classified as ‘poor conduct’.”

“The mages are not our friends, they are our charges.” He blinked away a touch of déjà vu. He had heard almost the exact same reprimand passed on to Thrask on his arrival to the Gallows, when the pair of them had held an equal rank. There was a stark difference in their situations now. In another existence, with a different outlook, Thrask might have held a Knight-Captaincy of his own. He sighed internally. Little use in contemplating how the past might be different. That was a sure route back into madness.

“Your lighter touch has been useful in the past, but too much leniency and you might fail to recognise or act quickly enough when a mage turns to forbidden magic or becomes possessed.”

“As you say, Ser,” Thrask replied noncommittally.

“I can offer a transfer to the Chantry garrison. It might be more to your preference.” It was worth the attempt, even if Thrask’s response could be easily predicted.

“No,” he replied firmly, “I will not be forced out as others have been by Knight-Commander Meredith’s-” he brought himself to a stop. “There is much that I can still do here, in the Gallows.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. He could hazard a guess that Thrask’s aborted sentence would not have been positive. He wouldn’t be the first to express his unease with the current state of affairs in Kirkwall. “She is your commanding officer,” his voice dropping to a sharp rebuke. “Whatever your personal opinions, I expect you to treat that position with the respect it deserves, Knight-Corporal Thrask. I would hate to find that you are the source of recent rumours regarding the Knight-Commander.”

“My apologies, Knight-Captain. It was the heat of the moment.”

“I hope so, or a demotion will seem a minor concern. I could insist you accept the transfer, but in light of your experience in the Circle, I will allow you to stay.” He raised the note. “One more such sanction and you will be demoted.”

Thrask saluted crisply enough that it was almost possible to ignore the discontent in his expression. “Yes, Ser. I will endeavour to serve as a templar should.”

Cullen nodded his acknowledgement, even as he raised an eyebrow at the phrasing. Serving as a templar ‘should’ could have numerous definitions. Thrask was quite possibly the exact opposite of templars like Alrik, whilst still notionally serving the same calling.

“Dismissed.”

He folded the note into his pocket. Not the first or last time he would have to handle sanctions from anything as minor as tardiness to possession of contraband to allegations of abuse. It would have been obvious to anyone that problems had only increased over the years.

He swept out of the Circle and back towards the relative peace of his office. The commanding officers’ corridor was still quiet when Cullen arrived, with Meredith at the keep — as was often the case these days — and Orsino attending to business with Formari stores in Kirkwall.

Corin saluted as Cullen stopped in front of his office door. “Knight-Corporal Thrask came by a few hours ago looking for you, Ser. I directed him your way. I assume he found you?”

Cullen frowned. _A few hours ago? Did he get lost?_ Hopefully he hadn’t taken the opportunity to collect another sanction for socialising with the mages before even delivering the first.

“He did, thank you, Ser Corin.”

His frown persisted at the sight of the envelope on his desk. Cheap paper, with a simple seal, addressed to the Templar Order in general.

He cut open the seal and skimmed through the missive. The content was baffling and seemingly completely irrelevant to the Order. A ‘concerned citizen’ from one of the Lowtown districts expressed worries that the Guard were failing to provide proper law enforcement. _That does not match my perception of the Guard._

He shook his head. This was a problem for city authorities to handle, not a matter for the Templar Order. Unfortunately, the highest city authority _was_ the Templar Order under Meredith’s stewardship. Still, he would handle Order business — at Meredith’s request — and leave the rest to her. He set it on the pile for Meredith’s attention.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that he was pulled from his desk by the sound of a blazing argument. Cullen strode into the corridor in time to see Orsino and Meredith nearly at each other’s throats. Outside Cullen’s door, Corin was doing his level best to disappear into the stones behind him.

“Without our guidance Kirkwall would fall to the maleficarum that teem in the streets. Prove me wrong, Orsino!” Meredith was near shouting. “Prove that mages are not a danger and I will gladly step down.”

“I cannot prove a negative. Even you should recognise that.” Orsino’s response was laced with vicious anger. “If we do not use forbidden magics, you will say it is only a matter of time. If we do, you will say it was inevitable. There is no positive outcome for us.”

“Enough.” The calm command cut off whatever response Meredith had intended to make.

“Your Grace,” Meredith responded, her tone almost instantly mellowing as she gave a short bow. “There was no need for you to accompany us.”

Only her clenched fists gave away that her anger had by no means faded. Orsino seemed little happier. His arms were tightly folded against his chest, as though that was the only thing preventing him from the suicidal action of pulling his staff from his back. Unconsciously, Cullen tensed in anticipation of danger at the charged atmosphere between the two.

Elthina looked between Meredith and Orsino. “It seems there is a need.” She indicated Meredith’s office, calm tone completely at odds with the bitter argument between the pair. “Come. You must resolve your differences. The Maker’s will must guide you to a peaceful accord.”

She waited for Meredith and Orsino to pass ahead before following. Just before she entered Meredith’s office, she spared a small, tired smile for Cullen.

 _Maker,_ he thought worriedly _. The situation is not improving here._ He was almost grateful that Meredith was only rarely in the Gallows these days. Were she here more often, the arguments between her and Orsino might well have brought the Gallows down around them.

At least the argument had been tempered by Elthina’s presence. The sound of conversation from beyond the door was now a more normal volume.

With the threat of violence gone, Cullen spared a glance for the templar that had escorted Elthina. She removed her helm and tucked it under her arm. “Knight-Captain.” Ambris saluted him with a strained smile. “I can’t say it’s a pleasure to be back here today.”

“I imagine not.” Cullen indicated his office. “We should have a few moments while they speak.” He shut the door after her and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What in the Maker’s name happened?”

“Sheer chaos, Ser. The First Enchanter was trying to rally support from the nobility in Hightown. I doubt you’ll be surprised to hear that he wants Meredith to step down from her position as Kirkwall’s steward.”

“His assigned escort just let him do it? He was supposed to visit the Formari and then return immediately,” Cullen stated incredulously.

Ambris nodded. “Maker knows what they were thinking. They’re lucky not to be in my command,” she added threateningly. “But the Knight-Commander caught word. Apparently, it was quite the argument they had in front of all Hightown’s finest.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered. “I can imagine exactly what was said. But he must have known she was in Hightown. If he wanted to provoke a public argument, he certainly succeeded. They are fortunate that the Grand Cleric was there.”

“That’s the more interesting part of the tale, Ser. The Champion was the one to restrain their argument.” Ambris shook her head disbelievingly. “The most famous apostate in Kirkwall supported the Knight-Commander.”

Cullen blinked. “That is ... unexpected. Although I suppose not entirely unbelievable. She has shown a surprising willingness to assist the Order in the past.”

Ambris shrugged. “Far be it for me to try and predict what an apostate will do.” She glanced back to the door. “If you’ll excuse me, Ser, I doubt her Grace will want to stay long.”

He considered for a moment asking Ambris for her perspective on Thrask’s temperament, but Thrask hadn’t served under her since his transfer to the second Kirkwall platoon, six years ago. Her own perspective would be no different to his. Too trusting. Lacking the cynicism essential to senior rank. Lenient attitude unsuited to Circle service, but harmless.

“Of course. I appreciate the report.”

Ambris whistled through her teeth. “Maker. I miss the Circle, but today, I am glad I’m able to go back to the chantry rather than having to deal with the aftermath of this.” She settled her helm back on her head. “You have my sympathy, Ser.”

True to Ambris’ expectation, Elthina stayed for barely half an hour before leaving the Gallows. The argument had cooled, but Cullen knew it was only a temporary lull. Meredith and Orsino’s conflict was not something that would be resolved in a single conversation, if ever. At some point, the Grand Cleric would inevitably have to step in and resolve it firmly. She had no choice but follow duty and side with the Order. This extended neutrality only gave Orsino false hope.

There was the rattle of a door. Orsino’s office. Moments later, there was an equally audible snap as Meredith’s door was pulled closed.

Cullen hesitated on the edge of reporting to Meredith. Now that she was here, there were reports and missives to pass on. He exhaled and sat back down. _She has enough to deal with already, better to give her a few moments of peace before I add to her concerns._

After what seemed a generous enough delay, he grabbed the stack of waiting items and dared venture over to Meredith’s office. He knocked on the door and settled himself to wait a polite few paces back. If she felt the need to air her thoughts aloud in the privacy of her office, it was none of his concern. After only a minute, the lock clicked and the door opened. He took the short delay as a good sign.

Meredith glanced at him and then the reports in his arms. “Come.” Judging from her closed expression and terse command, her anger was still barely held in check.

As had occasionally become the case, Cullen’s eye was drawn to Meredith’s new sword where it rested in her weapons rack. Whilst she had commissioned it months ago, she had only recently begun to use it. He wondered idly how it felt to wield. The bone-white blade and dull red crystal was like no weapon he had ever seen. It was easy to understand why it had absorbed weeks of time for the tranquil weapon smiths. He tore his eyes away with a faint blush of embarrassment. _Focus,_ he admonished himself, _you_ _’re hardly a child seeing your first sword_.

Cullen settled the stack of paper on her desk before saluting precisely. “Is there any way I can be of assistance, Knight-Commander?” he offered.

She sat back behind her desk and tented her hands in front of her. “You can keep Orsino under control. From now on, he is not to leave the Gallows without my express permission.” She looked blindly in the direction of Orsino’s office, across the hallway from hers. “He is planning something. I have suspected his intentions ever since he volunteered for the position of First Enchanter, when there was little need for such an outdated station to endure. This rebellion of his is only the first step, I see that now.”

Cullen blinked, nonplussed by a meandering statement that barely seemed directed at him. “As ordered, Knight-Commander,” he managed to respond. _Maker, I_ _’m not looking forward to enforcing that command._

The distant look in her eyes was replaced by her usual sharp gaze. “You heard the news, I imagine. The templars assigned to Orsino’s escort will be _severely_ punished. I will select his new detail personally.”

“Ser Ambris updated me. Maker knows what the First Enchanter intended. I can make some recommendations for the replacement detail?”

“The offer is appreciated, but this is a task I will handle myself.” She settled a hand on the stack of paper. “I must deal with these. Speak to Orsino. He will no longer hear reason from me.”

It seemed unlikely. But if nothing else, he wanted to know why Orsino was so eager to encourage conflict in the Gallows. He seemed to have transitioned from tacit approval of defiance to outright rebellion. “Of course, Knight-Commander.”

He saluted again and backed out of her office, pulling the door shut with a click.

Orsino’s office door was never locked. For security reasons it didn’t even have a lock. The best Orsino could do to indicate he preferred not to speak was to pull the door closed. The enthusiastic slam made that doubly clear. Cullen paused with his hand poised to knock on Orsino’s door. What could he say that they hadn’t said before? Despite whatever tentative accord they had, there would always be topics on which they would disagree. How the Order exercised its duty would always be one of those. But Orsino had gone beyond debate.

Cullen knocked sharply. Orsino’s cooperation was needed to keep the peace. And if not cooperation, then compliance. He shuddered to think what would happen if he took the next step into encouraging outright conflict. The Order had only one answer to that.

“It’s unlocked,” Orsino called out irritably, “But you know that.”

As Cullen entered, Orsino stood from behind his desk, straightening his shoulders. “At least you try to maintain the appearance of having some respect.” His tone was belligerent. “Have you come to ‘make me see reason’?”

“Would you listen? You tried to provoke open rebellion against the Order.” Cullen raised an open hand in baffled confusion. “You had to know what would happen. What in Andraste’s name were you thinking, First Enchanter?” he asked with exasperation. He exhaled and looked past Orsino to the sliver of sky visible through the narrow slit window behind Orsino’s desk. Someone needed to maintain a cool head here. “I’ve been ordered to keep you confined to the Gallows unless the Knight-Commander provides approval for you to leave. Frankly, that seems the most reasonable option to keep the peace.”

“I warned you, Knight-Captain. Perhaps I might not have the Champion’s support, but I refuse to stand idle. I have waited patiently for years in the hopes that Meredith might see reason.” A finger pointed emphatically in the direction of Meredith’s office. “I will wait no longer. Not for  her and not for you. Even a loyal soldier like you must see that her madness only seems to be worsening.” His accusation was vicious in its delivery.

“I have seen true madness. She is not there.”

A hint of an unpleasant smile touched Orsino’s lips as he caught the unspoken ‘yet’. “I beg to differ. She sees blood magic in every darkened corner. I cannot walk two paces these days without tripping over a templar.”

“I have done my best to curb any misconduct. Has there been any sign of wrongdoing by templars in the Circle?”

“There has not,” Orsino allowed grudgingly, although the heat remained in his tone.

“Then I fail to see the issue. Regardless, security is no heavier now than three years ago.”

“That was when the mage underground had just become a problem. Unless rumour is incorrect, they are months gone.”

Cullen sighed in exasperation. He wholeheartedly agreed with Meredith that there were matters that didn’t concern the Circle. But if a little honesty would help regain some sanity in this maddening city, it was worthwhile. He flicked his gaze back from the window to Orsino.

“Let me tell you the real reason for the continued security, First Enchanter. Reports of blood mages and apostates are no longer confined to Darktown. They’ve been hunted down as far as Hightown, streets away from the chantry itself. And would you care to guess their origin?” Cullen gestured in the direction of where the Circle would tower above them before scrubbing his face wearily. “Escapees from _this_ Circle. Ones who have managed to elude us long enough to cause harm.”

Judging by his hostile glare, Orsino didn’t accept the explanation. “I would never approve of Circle mages turning to forbidden magic, but you assume they learned those magics here. The mages of the Circle are not your enemies.”

“And the Order is not yours. Neither am I, Orsino. You seem to have forgotten that. The defiance you encourage does not help prove your assertion. You must be able to see that you are inciting war.” His hard-earned grip on impassive professionalism began to slip slightly as his tone heated. “Mages from this Circle have used blood magic, whether you approve or not.”

“Apostates have,” he corrected sharply. “And I cannot control any mage’s actions, even if that seems to be your intention. I can only represent the Circle’s interests. You are pushing mages towards ever more desperate acts and using that as justification to crush us further.”

“We must be cautious. A single blood mage can pull down an entire Circle. That is precisely what occurred in Ferelden. Countless people died there. I would not have it happen here.”

“This is not Ferelden. Meredith goes too far with her paranoia.”

“What other response do you expect us to have to maleficarum? Would you have us simply stand to one side?” Cullen snapped. “You must understand. I am doing my duty to keep people safe.”

“Duty. Always duty,” Orsino scoffed disdainfully. “Perhaps you are, but I fear the Order has lost its way. I cannot believe that seizing control of a city is required by your ‘duty’.”

The uncomfortable thing was, Cullen couldn’t bring himself to disagree. On ensuring the safety of the Circle and Kirkwall, he was certain. Orsino’s refusal to recognise that stretched tolerance built over years of working together to its breaking point. But he wasn’t wrong. The Order had no right to secular power.

With an effort, he pulled the flickers of anger back under close control. Orsino was understandably upset after yet another conflict with Meredith. Sustaining an argument of his own helped no one. His reply was even. “I will stand by my Knight-Commander.”

For years, that declaration had been a touchstone to their relative responsibilities and positions. Orsino couldn’t have expected any other response. To say anything else would have been a gross betrayal.

Orsino recognised the evasion for what it was. But instead of the exasperation or melancholy that usually followed, his expression was one of disgust.

“I refuse to be bullied into submission.” Orsino held a hand out towards the door before turning his back on Cullen. “Might I at least be allowed some peace, Knight-Captain?” He couldn’t order Cullen out, but the implicit demand was glaringly obvious.

A fragile tendril of trust that he hadn’t even realised existed began to wither. “Gladly,” he responded curtly.

The door rattled on his way out.

**22 nd Wintermarch 9:37 Dragon**

In the days that followed, Orsino didn’t apologise and neither did Cullen. They simply acted as if the argument’s bitter conclusion hadn’t happened. They still nodded curt greetings when they passed. Still maintained a facade of civility. But that was all it was. A simple pretence that Orsino seemed to have no interest in restoring to truth. A tension was there that hadn’t existed even when Cullen had first met the First Enchanter. An impasse where neither could let go of their close-held convictions.

But life had to continue, regardless of personal sentiments. Three days after Orsino’s failed attempt to rally support, they retrieved another newly awoken mage in Kirkwall. He was brought to the Gallows to await Meredith’s return from business in the keep. But when Cullen finally presented the details to her on her return, she spent a long moment scanning the report before handing it back to Cullen.

Her gaze snapped in the direction of Orsino’s office. “Perhaps you might oversee the task, Cullen.  I imagine my presence would only incite Orsino to further rebellion.”

Cullen hesitated. _The making of a phylactery is not blood magic,_ he reminded himself. It just bore an uncomfortable resemblance. “I would be happy to, Knight-Commander.”

“Excellent. Watch Orsino closely.” She pulled over a stack of reports and nodded a dismissal. “Good day.”

 _Between my duties and hers, there_ _’s little time left in the day,_ he mused before guiltily shaking off the thought.

The equipment for the new mage’s induction to the Circle had been ready almost minutes after he had arrived, waiting only for Meredith’s appearance. A phial that would that would fit neatly in the palm of Cullen’s hand and a lancet to take blood. Such simple items to bind a mage to a Circle for the remainder of their life.

Orsino held the empty phial up to the light, checking for imperfections. “Soon Meredith will hand off the responsibility for all Harrowings to you as well,” he muttered.

“I have that authority, should the Knight-Commander be unavailable,” he responded neutrally.

He knew the procedures for the Harrowing, just as he knew procedures for all the duties that fell to a Knight-Commander. It was a requirement for Knights-Captain, in the event that a Knight-Commander fell in the line of duty. He had attended a few of them — some uneventful, others failed. Enough that they were tolerable now, but he had no particular desire to attend more.

Orsino spared him an exasperated look. “I’m aware. That’s not the point. She is shirking her duties.”

Cullen flinched minutely, caught by surprise as Orsino cast the pair of spells that finished preparing the phial. In the interest of preventing another argument, he ignored Orsino’s comment and paced over to the door and the waiting templars. “Fetch the boy.”

When the pair of templars assigned to watch the new mage arrived, it was obvious that they were tired. Usually a new mage was inducted as soon as they arrived. Instead, they’d had to watch over him since the previous day. One carried the boy lightly at her hip, cautious of the bite of her armour. The boy scrubbed at reddened eyes but stayed mute as he was set on his own feet. Only seven years of age, he was dwarfed by the templars in the room.

“No trouble?”

“No, Ser,” she said as she pushed the boy gently forwards. “We kept him distracted and fed.” And silenced to prevent magical outbursts, if necessary. An unspoken addition that didn’t need to be acknowledged.

He took pity on their restrained yawns. There were more than enough templars around at this time of day. “Dismissed. Get some rest.”

Orsino crouched down in front of the boy and put on a friendly smile that was surely false. “You remember me, Georg?” He ruffled the boy’s hair when he nodded cautiously.

The boy’s gaze drifted over to where Cullen stood against the wall. The sword and shield on his back. The closed expression.

Orsino pulled him around to face the opposite direction. “Don’t worry about him, he’s never cheerful. The templars are here to protect you.”

Cullen could tell that the statement grated at Orsino, but at least he had acknowledged it.

A quick lick of flame from between Orsino’s fingers sanitised the lancet. Before the boy could react, Orsino cut a neat incision in his palm. The boy gritted his teeth but didn’t pull away as a trickle of blood dripped into the phial. When it was almost full, Orsino let the boy withdraw his hand.

“I’ll have someone heal that for you,” he said kindly, “Unfortunately, my talents do not extend to healing.”

He sealed the phial and the pull of magic filled the air again for a moment. The blood churned before gradually brightening with an unnatural red glow. _Not blood magic,_ Cullen reminded himself again as he let his tense muscles loosen and rolled his shoulders to feel the weight of his weapons.

Orsino patted the boy on the shoulder. “Congratulations, young mage. Welcome to the Kirkwall Circle of Magi.” He cast a stern glance at Cullen over the boy’s shoulder.

Cullen almost rolled his eyes before walking around to stand in front of the Circle’s newest apprentice. Maker knew what Orsino had thought he would do. The boy was hardly a raging abomination. “Welcome to the Circle, Apprentice Georg,” he said crisply. “Apply yourself well and I’m sure you will succeed here.”

The boy’s thank you was so quiet it was barely audible. He smiled tentatively and his eyes flicked up briefly to meet Cullen’s before falling to the floor again. Orsino ushered him off in the company of a waiting Enchanter with another reassuring comment and a pat on the back. When the boy had left he turned back to Cullen. “And if he does not, Meredith will see he receives the brand,” he added bitterly.

Cullen ignored the sniping comment. Again. “We’ll visit the phylactery chamber, and then I won’t trouble you any longer.”

Early evening in the Gallows was always a busy time as the watch changed and the Circle wound down before curfew began. But Cullen frowned as they descended down to the subterranean levels of the phylactery chamber below Templar Hall. Only half as many templars were stationed in the area as there should have been. Even now, during watch change, the phylactery chamber was always heavily protected. It was possible that some of Knight-Lieutenant Bennet’s men had been diverted to other duties. He would have to speak to the man.

His tension rose when they arrived in front of the heavy doors that sealed off the phylactery chamber. An area that was to be guarded by at least two templars at all times — day or night, whatever the emergency — was completely and utterly empty.

“Knight-Captain-” began Orsino.

Cullen gestured him back in the direction of the stairwell. “Be careful,” he ordered in a low undertone that carried no further than Orsino.

He drew his sword and scanned the area. No blood, no sign of a struggle, no trace of recent magic. The corridor in either direction was quiet and empty. He jogged back to the stairwell and called up for the templars stationed at the top. There was a rattle of plate as they rushed down the stairs at the sound of his sharp command.

Cullen indicated the empty spaces where templars ought to have stood with the point of his sword. “Where are they?”

“I have no idea, Ser,” answered one with baffled confusion.

A deep sense of unease filled Cullen. _It could be nothing,_ he thought vaguely. Nothing that templar guards were missing from one of the most closely guarded sections of the entire Gallows.

He called Orsino forwards and placed his palm on the plate at the side of the heavy doors leading to the phylactery chamber. A pulse of power through his hand, a burst of raw magic from Orsino, and the door swung open smoothly.

He heaved a faint sigh of relief when the red lit interior of the chamber came into view. Nothing seemed out of place. Realistically, how could there have been? Any intrusion would have to be conducted by a mage and a templar working together. Surely that was a ridiculous expectation.

He sheathed his sword and gestured Orsino into the room. “Nothing seems amiss.” He glowered at the pair of Knights-Templar. “Guard the doors until I have spoken to your superior officer.”

He strode along the rows, automatically scanning each shelf for anything out of the ordinary. Phylacteries clustered on the shelves in countless shapes and sizes, each with a consistently bright red glow that indicated its owner was near. With the exception of the First Enchanter himself, every one of the hundreds of mages in the Gallows was represented here, their names and details marked in a cypher.

He lurched to a stop.

“What-?” Orsino began to ask before he too stopped.

Ahead of them, a few small pools of blood covered the floor in sticky red. Tiny glass shards glittered in the sickly red light. With a racing heart, Cullen stalked over to the next shelf. Another two smashed phylacteries, their contents still dripping desultorily to the flagstones. The small card that ought to have held the mage’s details was unreadable through the bloodstains.  On another shelf, a further three were smashed to pieces, their glow faded to a feeble glimmer and their details illegible.

Almost twenty broken phylacteries in all. His heart shuddered in his chest. Twenty mages free to flee the Circle. In Cullen’s eyes, the small pools of blood suddenly seemed magnified. All that was missing were butchered bodies. He slammed down on the memory. _Not Kinloch Hold,_ he thought desperately. But it was impossible to ground himself amongst the baleful light and pools of dripping blood. Amongst long rows of phylacteries that were most decidedly _not blood magic_. His hands trembled.

Cullen snapped around to face Orsino. He drew on the lyrium in his blood and enforced an intense denial of magic. _I will not be caught unprepared this time._ Orsino gasped as an impenetrable barrier blocked him off from the Fade.

A shaking finger pointed at the closest pool. The other fist clenched to keep from reaching for his sword. _Not Kinloch Hold_. “How long?”

“What?” Orsino asked in confused distress as he met Cullen’s too-wide eyes.

“Did you play a part in this?” he asked, desperately clutching for control. “How long ago were they broken?”

“Andraste preserve me, I had nothing to do with this, you must believe me.” He held his hands away from the staff on his back. “I could not say. There is an enchantment on the phial to preserve the blood, to prevent it from clotting. With the glass broken it would fade in perhaps a day? I- I do not know.”

There was an enchantment to protect the glass from damage too. It could have been dispelled by a mage … or a templar. An impossible thought that he desperately did not want to be considering.

“One of your mages had to have done this,” he snapped. “Blood magic, to corrupt the mind of a templar. To force them to betray their duty.” In his mind, his voice adopted the desperate terror he had felt in Kinloch Hold at the thought that the Wardens might unwittingly set loose blood mages.

“You can’t believe that,” Orsino stated incredulously.

“I’ve seen it happen,” he replied, emotion draining from his voice to leave it flat and cold. “I’m ordering the Gallows to be locked down immediately.”

Orsino raised his hands in a helpless shrug. “So you will punish us all for this? I had thought you were better than Meredith.”

For a moment, Cullen felt regret as the wary accord between them fractured even further. _No,_ he insisted to the traitorous part of himself that pleaded for trust, _there is no other appropriate response._

“I must ensure this does not spiral out of our control. Perhaps we will prevent these mages from becoming apostate.”

Orsino’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Maker take you all,” he whispered defeatedly.

Cullen gestured back towards the exit. “After you, First Enchanter,” he ordered icily.

Orsino was confined to his office, his new security detail at his door. Meredith was informed. Lessons and final activities of the evening were shut down as every mage in the Gallows was confined to their quarters. The crisis was worse even than the most severe of the incursions by the mage underground. A full roll call of the Circle’s mage population found fourteen missing mages. More than half of those whose phylacteries had been shattered. The contents of the phylactery chamber were fully inventoried. It was one small relief to find that none had been removed entirely. The remainder of the mages to whom the shattered phylacteries had belonged were spared from the holding cells for just long enough to have phylacteries recreated. Orsino acquiesced with venomous anger. With two templars in full plate at his shoulders, the voluntary compliance was a polite fiction.

Away from the phylactery chamber, the haze of memory cleared from Cullen’s mind after the shameful loss of control. With the cold light of reason, a little perspective returned. He had heard the whispers in the Gallows. The sympathy for the mages. More templars than just Thrask were dissatisfied with how their charges were treated. It wasn’t outlandish that a templar might have destroyed the phylacteries of their own free will. He wasn’t sure which was better to believe. That templars had betrayed the Order, or that the Gallows might have hosted a blood mage with the power to dominate multiple templars.

But in the face of Orsino’s bitter anger, his conviction remained. Either Orsino had known, or had refused to see the truth. A temporary lockdown of the Gallows was the only way to limit the possibility of the culprits escaping or even more mages becoming apostate.

The sound of a slamming cell door boomed through every corner of the holding cells. The sobbing pleas of the mage in the cell were lost in the echoes. Meredith’s towering fury had been more than enough to drain every last detail from him. What little he knew was damming enough.

“Templars did this?!” Meredith’s enraged bark was almost as loud as the slam of the cell door. “Men under my command broke mages’ phylacteries and assisted in their apostasy?”

Cullen swallowed past the lump in his throat. It was impossible to believe. And yet it was inevitable. The phylactery chamber could not be opened without a templar. And the guards assigned to the phylactery chamber were nowhere to be found. _Maleficarum? Or was there more to the whispers than I thought?_

“Blood magic.” Her voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper. In what seemed to be an unconscious movement, she reached up to run a hand along the long bone-white hilt of her sword. “All encouraged by Orsino, no doubt.” She glared in Cullen’s direction. Even knowing that it wasn’t directed towards him, he flinched minutely at the searing anger. “Arrest the accused templars immediately. And I am extending the lockdown. All mages are confined to their quarters indefinitely. This is incontrovertible proof that this Circle is beyond saving. Action must be taken,” she said with cold finality.

All thought of disloyal templars and apostate mages fled Cullen’s mind as an icy wave of fear washed over him. “Beyond saving, Knight-Commander?” _Surely she is not implying what I think she is?_ “Even in Ferelden-”

“We are not in Ferelden.” She unknowingly echoed Orsino with her sharp statement. “Leniency towards mages there led to tragedy.” Her voice adopted the crisp tones of command. “I require your loyalty, not your approval, Knight-Captain Cullen.”

Loyalty, yes. She had that as his Knight-Commander, and someone who had placed trust in him. But _blind_ loyalty? More and more, that was what she demanded as explanations dried up to leave evasive inscrutability. He had thought his own inexperience was to blame for not seeing how her decisions fit their duty as templars. But her direction diverged more and more from the Order’s duty, as hard as that was to admit. _Am I only an extension of her will?_

Another traitorous thought entered his mind. Meredith was perhaps twice his age. Paranoia. Obsession. Two early indicators that a templar was beginning to suffer from extended lyrium use. _Maker preserve us all, I pray that is not the case_. Orsino had called her mad. She was not that. _Not yet,_ he completed a thought he hadn’t dared voice. But something was wrong here. He closed his eyes for a long moment. _Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide_. The prayer for the despairing seemed an uncomfortably fitting name. A familiar plea for guidance and certainty. But what in the Maker’s name did one — could one — do in a case like this?

There was only one answer available to him. Orsino had called him a loyal solider. He wasn’t wrong.

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” he answered crisply, heart in his mouth.

But internally, his smooth acknowledgement was tempered with doubt. She still had his loyalty, but he could not be as blind as he had been for years. Meredith was looking to answer Orsino’s rebellion with blood. Not as a last resort, but as a first strike. _Perhaps it is time to face the reality that something is truly, deeply wrong in Kirkwall. But what now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, I really did remember a minor comment from Ambris to Thrask in Chapter 2. Totally planned to bring that up 24 chapters later…
> 
> I do tend to go overboard having fun with the Orsino-Cullen debates. After building up their relationship, it’s quite sad to start this rapid breakdown.
> 
> With so much canon content happening outside the Gallows, I don’t often get the chance for ‘life as a templar in a Circle’ content. This chapter gave me an excuse to get back to some of that.


	27. Apostates of Hightown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve gone for a mainly discrete episodic structure so far, but the chapter was getting far too long after I spent a bit too much time on the first half, so it's now been split in two.

**23 rd Wintermarch 9:37 Dragon**

Hightown’s main market perched precariously on the cliffs overlooking the bay. From the railings that kept residents from toppling into the distant waters far below, it was just possible to see the Gallows. It looked almost peaceful and still, wreathed in a low mist carried off the Waking Sea, although it would never be mistaken for anything other than the fortress it was.

Compared to that almost tranquil view into the bay, the market square was a hive of activity. It bustled with people and boomed with enthusiastic shouts as stall-owners promoted their merchandise. Tens of market stalls selling anything and everything the residents might need or want without ever having to descend to the streets of Lowtown on the slopes below. Little wonder that the residents of Hightown didn’t have much concern for whatever happened in the distant Gallows. Even now, with blood mages reported in Hightown, their concern only went as far as keeping the streets safe.

The Hightown estates held a prime location, clustered in a complex network of avenues and cul-de-sacs. Estates and business — savoury and … less so — crowded into the limited space on top of Kirkwall’s cliffs. From nearly every street, it was impossible to miss the lofty towers that crowned the chantry. Not the most sensible location for potential blood mages to hide. But Kirkwall was hardly a sensible city. So far, it seemed at least half of the Circle apostates had fled to family, as if the loss of their phylacteries meant that templars would never be able to find them.  Naturally, it was the first place they would look.

Despite that, not all of their enquiries had been successes. The de Launcet estate had been a dead end. If Comtesse de Launcet knew something, she certainly wasn’t going to tell them. And her reactions had been too exaggeratedly dramatic to have been the result of control exerted by blood magic. _Orlesians,_ Cullen thought with exasperation as he diverted around a pair of obliviously chattering servants. The whole visit had been bizarre. Not least when the Comtesse had claimed she had no doubt her ‘boy’ would turn himself in. Emile de Launcet was the same age as Cullen. An adult by anyone’s definition.

The only people that weren’t regularly accosted by eager merchants were Cullen and the squad he lead. The busy crowds parted and reformed around them as they forged their way through the market square. This was to be their final stop of the day in a methodical investigation of the families and relatives of each of the latest Circle apostates. In the streets below, Knight-Lieutenant Conrad led his own squads through Lowtown and Darktown in a subtle mobilisation of templar forces. Heavy Templar patrols in Kirkwall didn’t draw as much attention as they might once have, but even now, Meredith required that their failures be kept discreet.

They escaped the tight press of people in the market into the relative calm of the shady avenues beyond. Here, the mansions and estates stretched high enough to almost totally block the low winter sunshine. Thankfully, the unrelieved stone was broken by strips of pale blue sky above them.

June retook her place at his shoulder with a crooked smile. “I’m grateful the Knight-Commander sent you along, Ser,” she commented idly. “All these Hightowners would have turned a lowly Knight-Lieutenant away at the door.”

“I imagine that’s why you were assigned to the Hightown sweeps rather than Ser Conrad,” Cullen replied with a grimace. He might have resolved to avoid blind loyalty, but he couldn’t argue against the sense in accompanying the search of Hightown. Kirkwall nobility could be … temperamental.

She chuckled in response. “I haven’t been Lady June since I was eight and my parents sent me to the Chantry. But I suppose the hint of noble birth does help. More than the rank of Knight-Lieutenant, at least.”

Cullen refrained from a comment on the self-important attitudes of the nobility of the city. Granted, he’d had little to do with nobles in Kirkwall or Ferelden. But Kirkwall nobles had more in common with the highly stratified culture of Orlais than the more anarchic attitude to nobility in Ferelden. It was an adjustment he had no interest in making.

“You’ve settled into the rank then?”

“More or less, Ser.” She cast an amused look over her shoulder to the rest of the squad, politely pretending that they couldn’t hear the conversation. “But I was a Knight-Corporal for long enough to know that Knights-Templar have plenty of ways of discreetly letting an officer know if they’ve done something wrong.”

Cullen smirked. “So I’ve noticed.”

She shuddered. “At least I had the time to acclimatise.” She gave him a measuring look. “You know, the Knights-Corporal had a pool going on which Knight-Lieutenant we expected to gain the Knight-Captaincy after Knight-Captain Harmoran left.”

“Oh?” Cullen looked over. “Dare I ask who your favourite was?”

“Knight-Lieutenant Conrad.” She smiled wryly. “Loyalty to my direct superior at the time. You were … not at the bottom, Ser,” she added diplomatically.

“I doubt I was anyone’s favourite for the position.”

“You’d be surprised. You gained your promotion to Knight-Lieutenant quickly, and were the Knight-Commander’s adjutant. It was clear she had plans.”

 _Plans that involved promoting a barely functional twenty-year old to a rank usually given to experienced templars_ , Cullen thought cynically. A large aspect might well have been the similarity in their perspectives on magic. Meredith would never have promoted him if she had thought it would compromise the Order. But how much came from the desire for a second-in-command who wouldn’t think to question orders? _An unfair accusation. My doubts are only recent._

“Similar outlooks,” he remarked simply instead, by way of explanation. _Or at least we once had similar outlooks._

Cullen brought them to a halt behind the cover of a trellis of climbing plants, a rare spot of green in the otherwise built-up city of Kirkwall. Their final stop was in an even more isolated cul-de-sac than the de Launcet estate. Slightly more run down, perhaps, but still three storeys of brutal Kirkwall architecture. The private courtyard was already fully in shade as the sun began to set. A subdued pennant with the family crest snapped in the crisp winter breeze that whistled through the narrow Kirkwall streets. Not cold by a Fereldan’s standards, but bitterly unpleasant to the Kirkwallers with him.

Cullen turned back to the templars trailing him and reiterated the relevant details of the next apostate’s records. “We are looking for Bail Hastis, aged thirty-eight. Brought to the Circle as an apostate, aged twenty-seven. Harrowed two months later. No allegiance to a fraternity. A number of disciplines on his record.” And the most dangerous aspect. He paused to ensure the significance was clear. “Specialisation in spirit magic.”

June nodded acknowledgement, professional mask dropping back into place. Spirit mages were always under close surveillance, with a dangerous connection to the fade. Only spirit healers were watched more closely. Add the expectation that all the apostates were likely blood mages, and they were even more on guard.

With the squad adequately warned, he led the way into the courtyard. Considering the size of the estate, the front door was surprisingly understated. June nodded to the sconces on either side of the entrance. Despite the dull light of the late winter afternoon, they were unlit.

“The family may have fallen on hard times. Might make them more reluctant to harbour an apostate.”

Cullen knocked sharply on the door. After a surprisingly long wait, the door opened to reveal a perfectly turned out butler. He surveyed them for a long minute before sniffing.

“How might I be of service?”

“I am Knight-Captain Cullen. We wish to speak to Serah Hastis.”

“His lordship is not taking visitors,” he informed them flatly.

Not the first time they’d been greeted with those words. He stepped neatly into the doorway to prevent it from being closed. “We won’t take much of his time,” Cullen replied coolly. “If he is unavailable, we can wait.”

The butter spent another minute eyeing them. “I will fetch his lordship.” He took a smooth step back and held an arm out to welcome them, grudgingly, into the estate’s atrium. “Wait here, Ser Knights. Members of the honourable Templar Order are always welcome,” he added belatedly, in blatant contrast to his chilly greeting.

The atrium was dull, lit only by a bare handful of lamps despite an ornate chandelier that hung down from the ceiling high above. And the interior of the building was eerily quiet after the bustle of people and whistling wind in the streets outside. No servants or visitors in sight. It certainly tallied with June’s suggestion that the family might be lacking in funds.

Cullen scanned what little he could see of the building as the rest of the squad swept in to array themselves behind him. Multiple archways led to dim and empty rooms. A wide stairway led up to the first floor. A clear view of the atrium was afforded from the balcony that overlooked the area. They hardly held the most strategically sound location, exposed as they were on three sides and with multiple entrances.

His gaze snapped back down to the ground floor as a man entered, butler nowhere to be seen. He looked too young to be their apostate. A younger brother, perhaps?

“Serah Hastis? I am Knight-Captain Cullen. I have some questions for you regarding Bail Hastis.”

Unlike the other nobles they had visited, the man didn’t blink an eye when Cullen spurned the use of any title apart from the Marcher Serah, a claim of equal or better status than a noble. It might be correct, but the nobility in Kirkwall resented acknowledging the fact.

“I haven’t seen my older brother in years, Knight-Captain,” he responded without a trace of concern. “Not since the templars took him.”

“He recently fled the Circle. More often than not, apostates seek out their families first.”

There was a pause as the man visibly seemed to look for the most appropriate response. “I haven’t seen my older brother in years, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen’s gaze slid to June beside him. Her brow was furrowed with concern. The man had repeated his previous statement word for word. Even the intonation had been similar.

“He was an apostate before he was brought to the Circle. Were you aware he was a mage?”

Again, a pause that was just slightly too long. “It was through me that the templars found out. I was young, and I spoke unwisely.”

“You did the right thing. We would appreciate your assistance again in returning him to the safety of the Circle. Any information might be of use to us.”

The man seemed to ignore Cullen’s request. “If my brother were here now, I would apologise.”

Behind his back, Cullen signalled the templars with them to alertness. Something was definitely wrong here. Flat or delayed responses that seemed to lack sense. His mind might not be his own.

“Might we search the premises?” he requested calmly. Almost no one ever agreed to that, but it would be interesting to see his reaction.

“I don’t think so.” That response had been sharp enough. He might not have anything to hide, but it certainly raised suspicions.

“Then perhaps we might speak to your servants. He may have slipped in and out of the estate without you being aware.” A blood mage could only exert absolute control over so many minds at once. If he could bring them all together at once, that control might snap.

“I think you ought to leave now.”

Cullen folded his arms. “Under authority granted us by the Chantry, we have the right to pursue apostate mages however we see fit. If you hinder our investigation, we will be forced to place you under arrest,” he replied, any attempt at politeness leaching from his voice.

“Templars. Always looking to wield your power. Are you that different to the maleficarum you condemn?” That voice drifted down from a balcony overlooking the atrium. An older man sauntered into view and folded his arms on the balustrade. A half smile twisted his lips as he looked down at them. In front of Cullen, Lord Hastis stared blankly ahead, his face an empty mask. “Knight-Commander Meredith sent her own right hand to find me? An honour, Knight-Captain. I doubt you recognise me — busy as you are with keeping your prison running — but we all know you.”

The air hummed as the templars brought a denial of magic to bear. Little use against a blood mage. Weapons leapt into their hands.

“Release your hold on him, maleficar,” Cullen ordered.

“Jumping to conclusions, aren’t we?”

Cullen’s unease rose as the mage sauntered his way down to the ground floor of the atrium. What apostate in their right mind moved _closer_ to the templars hunting them? Maleficar or not, a mage’s primary advantage over a templar was range.

The templars behind him began to fan out, gradually enclosing the apostate in an arc of bristling steel. With sudden speed, he swept down the final few steps and grabbed his brother, pulling him close as a human shield. From behind his back, he raised a brutally lethal dagger and rested it against his brother’s throat.

“I’d be carefully if I were you, Knight-Captain. Would you kill an innocent to catch an apostate?” A trickle of blood wound down from where the dagger pressed into skin. “I’m quite curious.”

Cullen raised a fist to halt the templars’ advance. “There’s one of you and eight of us. Surrender.”

“Is that all, Ser Cullen?” The apostate laughed incredulously. “I’m not sure whether I should be insulted or grateful. And they said you were shrewd.” He shook his head. “You should have brought more.”

From archways all around the atrium, people boiled out. They lurched and stumbled into position in front of the apostate. Elven and human servants formed a blank-eyed wall of human flesh that blocked the templars from advancing. Cullen cursed internally. He looked up and down the line of templars to either side of him. Not a one had a clear view to call a smite on the apostate.

Cullen held his sword and shield ready. His lip curled as he stared the apostate down. “What do expect will happen here? You cannot leave, blood mage.”

The trickle of blood from beneath the dagger’s edge thickened. “I want him to _beg_ for my forgiveness. Because of his stupidity, I was taken to the Circle by a witless brute like you.” The hand holding the blade gestured to the shadowed atrium before snapping back into position. “This was all going to be mine, but mages do not inherit. So my little brother — a child — became the heir.” His laugh was musical. “He’s fifteen years younger than me. And he squandered what should have been mine.”

Cullen’s blood ran cold. The words held the familiar ring of an abomination. A reasonably powerful one if it remained outwardly human. But what kind? Certainly not sloth or despair. Rage at perceived injustice? The words had been too calm for a rage demon, even if it held some of the same sentiments. That left two likely options. Pride claiming right to a higher station in life? Or desire for revenge on the templars and family who had betrayed him? He prayed desperately that he was mistaken. The thought of another pride abomination was bad enough. But desire? Better not to consider that at all.

Beside Cullen, June cleared her throat. With a minute tilt of her head, she indicated the templars on the far ends of their line. Cullen had its attention. Now he simply had to keep it distracted whilst they moved into position. There were ways to provoke an abomination to reveal itself fully. Calling a smite on it would certainly be one of the less subtle routes. They didn’t have time for anything slower. But with so many possible casualties, drawing the demon to the fore became dangerous. He would have to hope it could be incapacitated before any harm was done. And if he was mistaken — _Maker please may it be so_ — a smite would be even more likely to incapacitate him.

Cullen lowered his sword. “You will not find true sorrow for past mistakes by holding his mind to ransom. You know that. Release him and return to the Circle with us.”

“Even if you didn’t execute me on the spot, I would spend the rest of my life in a cell. And not one of the comfortable ones you keep the rest of the mages in.”

“Surely better than death.”

“I have more choices than death or the Circle.” The rank of servants took a shambling step closer. Fist were raised threateningly.

 _Maker,_ thought Cullen with a mix of distaste and dismay _, this will be a massacre._ Fists and thin clothing were no match for swords and steel armour or the training of a templar. But they would have no choice but to defend themselves.

“I ask again,” the apostate said sharply. “Do you desire my death enough to murder innocents? I have seen templars who crave violence. Perhaps you are one of them, Knight-Captain. Some of the mages in the Circle said not, but you can never be sure what a templar wants behind those empty eyes.”

 _Desire._ Cullen mouthed the word with horror, suddenly mute.

White teeth flashed a brilliant smile from the shadows. "Oh. You are familiar with this game. You must have met one of my siblings. I'm sure I can do a better job for you."

He felt suddenly and cripplingly ill. He sword arm drooped to his side and he backed a few uncontrolled steps away. _Maker have mercy on me,_ he thought desperately. _Not again_. His eyes scanned frantically over the ranks of blank-eyed servants in front of them. Were they real? Had _everything_ been an illusion, and for how long? He found it impossible to shake the sudden fear he had thought gone since he left Kinloch Hold.

"Knight-Captain. Knight-Captain!" The concerned whisper from June broke through to a mind frozen in terror. "Are you alright?"

"Desire abomination." He managed to push the words out with a leaden tongue.

 _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Keep_ out, _demon._

"Orders?" she hissed. Her eyes widened when Cullen failed to respond. “Maker. It cast some kind of enchantment on the Knight-Captain,” she called out.

"Let me save you the trouble." The smooth voice was horrifically familiar now, even distorted as it was by a human male tongue. "He desires my death. At this very moment, he desires nothing more." He lowered the dagger and stepped out from behind his human shield. “For you, Knight-Captain, anything.”

Instincts warred against each other. Subdue the apostate and take what the demon offered? Or resist and risk letting him free? As he stood frozen, there was a sharp crack and flash of white light. The apostate was sent flying.

“Maker forgive me,” gasped the attacking templar as the body resolved itself into the form of an elven servant, slumped in an unconscious heap against the wall.

“That offer was not for you,” the abomination hissed, its voice seeming to come from everywhere at once. The offending templar let out a gurgling choke and dropped to his knees.

The air behind him shimmered and a wiry figure appeared. Its arm was stained to the elbow with blood by the heart it held in its hand. It smiled, small pointed teeth glittering in the half-light of the atrium. The abomination looked almost human. Almost.

“So unhappy, all of you. Won’t you let me help?”

“Hold,” June barked, taking command as Cullen stood paralysed. “It could be another illusion.”

Cullen closed his eyes reflexively. _I deny this vision. Maker, please, I beg of you, give me strength. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written._

Muted humming that bore a vague resemblance to the chant echoed down the corridor. Cullen opened his eyes and blinked. Smooth granite walls arced away in either direction. He looked to one side to the templar posted at the opposite side of the archway. A roguish grin twisted the other man’s mouth and the volume increased a notch.

“Beval?”

The humming stopped and the templar laid a hand on his heart. “Knight-Templar Cullen Rutherford, do my ears deceive me? Are you talking whilst on duty?”

“You’re dead.”

Beval dropped his hand and the grin faded. “That’s a pretty poor attempt at humour.”

“You died during the Blight,” his voice fell to a whisper. “An arcane horror killed you.”

“Maker, Cullen, did you forget to collect your lyrium this morning? The reinforcements sent to Ostagar arrived back a few days ago. All the darkspawn down there were killed.” He shook his head incredulously. “And an arcane horror? Here, in the dullest Circle in Thedas? If your eyes weren’t open, I’d think you were talking in your sleep again.”

Cullen reached up over his shoulder and felt the long hilt of a greatsword. He took one step away from his post. Then another. There was something he needed to be dong, and it certainly wasn’t standing watch. “No. This is wrong.” Or rather, it was too right, too peaceful. Why did his mind tell him that nothing could ever be like this? And why the panic that had his heart racing?

“Ser Cullen,” a voice called out from just out of view.

Beval snapped to attention. “Knight-Corporal, don’t mind him, he was just feeling restless.”

A templar emerged from around the curve of the corridor and folded her arms. A hint of a smile crossed her face. “Unless I’m much mistaken, you’re still on duty for a few hours.” She tilted her chin to indicate his post. “Back to your watch, Knight-Templar.”

“Knight- _Captain_ ,” he snapped. “You seem to have forgotten your station, Knight-Corporal Annlise.”

He blinked in confusion and his cheeks coloured with embarrassment. Where in the Maker’s name had that come from? He was a newly initiated Knight-Templar, had been one for little more than a year. But some instinct held him back from a humble apology.

He shook his head to try and clear the confusion and pointed an accusing finger first at Annlise, then at Beval. “Maker knows why, but you should be dead.”

He couldn’t recall it, but he knew it was true. He looked again around the curving halls for imperfections, details that might be wrong. That was what they said in recruit training. But why?

Beval and Annlise exchanged a baffled look. She opened her mouth to speak again, but he cut her off. “Enough, Ser Annlise.” Somehow, the sharp tone of command seemed more natural than the deference of a Knight-Templar to a superior officer.

Without looking back, he strode down the corridors. The details were hazy, unclear, as if seen through a fog. The further he moved from his post, the more things seemed ever so slightly off. Tiny details he knew should have been there were absent. A missing banner. Too few passing templars. No sounds from the armoury. He growled in frustration as his mind slid over identifying what that meant. His hand leapt to his back again, and this time met the shorter hilt of a longsword. The corridor rang with the sound of steel as he drew it and settled his shield on his arm. It felt right. More so than the greatsword assigned to him as an initiate.

The corridors seemed to waver into focus again as Cullen passed by Knight-Commander Greagoir’s office. Even so, details still didn’t quite match the precise clarity of memory. _Maker_ _’s breath, what is the point of all the training if I can’t recall why that matters?_ He hadn’t succumbed to lyrium yet, not if the details still remained so clear to his memory. And again, confusion. Why had he thought the lyrium the Chantry gave them would cause any damage to his mental faculties?  Surely they wouldn’t be given anything that might cause harm.

Knight-Commander Greagoir himself strode out of his office as Cullen passed. He frowned at the naked steel in Cullen’s hand. “Sheathe your sword, Ser Cullen,” he ordered mildly. “The Circle Tower is perfectly safe.”

The reaction rang falsely. Knight-Commander Greagoir might have been lenient, but he would never have reacted so passively to templars wandering about with weapons drawn. And his statement seemed even less believable. The halls of Kinloch Hold were not safe, and could never be safe, whatever his eyes told him. His mind screamed at him that something was terribly wrong. Cullen resettled his hand about the hilt of its sword. “No, Knight-Commander, it is not.”

“Would you care to explain, Knight-Captain?”

Cullen opened his mouth to correct the rank and paused. Which was true? Only moments ago, he had been called Knight-Templar and believed he was a Knight-Captain.

A piece of memory swam to the surface and Cullen clutched at it. “Uldred.” Even the name sent an inexplicable shiver of bone-deep dread through him. “Senior Enchanter Uldred is a threat. He must be dealt with before he can do any harm.”

Greagoir’s eyebrows rose. “Unfortunately, Senior Enchanter Uldred was a casualty at Ostagar. The only casualty from the Circle, actually. I can’t imagine his ashes are much of a threat to anyone.”

A final piece clicked in Cullen’s mind and all the horrific memories of the past washed back over him. Some small part of him might wish this was all true, but life was not so kind. Naive Knight-Templar Cullen might not have known that, but an older, more sceptical Knight-Captain Cullen did. The Circle Tower had fallen. The people he had known there had died. The Blight had ravaged Ferelden and killed his parents.

And Desire had tortured him with temptations it thought would break him.

“I know this trick. I will not submit.” He closed his eyes again. “Leave me be, demon.” The familiar plea tripped off his tongue with terrible ease. _Maker, please. Not again. I could not bear it._

When he opened his eyes it was to the sight of the dimly-lit atrium of the Hastis estate. He instinctively compared what he saw against memory. Unlit chandelier, sweeping stairwell, the unconscious body of a servant crumpled against the wall. His heart rate increased for a moment at the resounding silence that filled the building. No distant sound of screams or shrieks of demons. _That is not my reality anymore,_ he told himself emphatically, _not for six years_. _This is not Kinloch Hold._ His trembling right hand itched slightly where the padding had worn through on his gauntlet. He’d been meaning to have it replaced. No demon could replicate reality to that extent. He exhaled a deeply relieved breath. _Thank the Maker,_ he thought fervently.

And he was not trapped or helpless. Lyrium hummed in his blood, pushed around his body by the too-fast beat of his heart. His armour was a comfortable rather than crushing weight on a body that wasn’t brought low by withdrawal and privation. His sword was in his hand. _I am not that helpless and terrified boy any more._ It was more a prayer than conviction, but it was a start.

He catalogued the rest of the room. The abomination was gone. Lord Hastis himself was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the wall of servants. All illusions?

Smiles alternately empty, serene or lecherous twisted the mouths of the templars to either side of him. Weapons drooped and in more than one case, had fallen to the floor. Still caught in visions.

There was a gasp from one templar. “Maker preserve me.” He blinked and swayed, looking to either side. “Knight-Captain?”

Cullen indicated for silence and gestured him away from the captivated templars. “We must find the abomination,” he whispered. _Kill the demon and take back some control._ “It is the only way we will free the others if they cannot escape for themselves.”

“Ser,” he acknowledged. He looked around the atrium with wide eyes. “How-” he stopped and swallowed. “That was a desire abomination, yes? The vision was so real. How do we know this isn’t another?”

“You were trained to recognise the signs, Ser Lain. No demon is infallible. The visions can be broken. There is always a flaw. Hazy details. Aspects that don’t fit with your own recollections. Inconsistencies. There is more than one reason we are trained to always pay attention to our surroundings.” Dispassionately listing off the details made it easier to distance himself from the horror that chilled his own blood. It had taken long _long_ weeks after Kinloch Hold to cope with that fear. Years of training to fight such demons could never substitute for the reality.

“You’ve faced this before, Ser?” The templar questioned, looking for reassurance. Even in Kirkwall, it was rare to encounter an abomination with enough strength to ensnare the minds of multiple templars.

“I have,” he replied shortly, cutting off any further comment. “Keep quiet and do not draw on lyrium unless absolutely necessary. We must find the abomination before it realises we have escaped and turns the others against us.”

With a gesture, he indicated in the direction of the entrance from which Lord Hastis had originally emerged. Lain nodded and settled his sword and shield more comfortably on his arm.

“Maker give me strength. Andraste guide my blade,” Cullen murmured as he led the way through the archway. _Ignore the fear, you have a duty_. And then more emphatically. _This is_ not _Kinloch Hold._

“Ser?”

“Nothing.” He lapsed into silence. The Canticle of Benedictions skimmed through his mind, threading through the muted hum of the lyrium in his blood.

The archway led out into a receiving room. Old portraits in muted colours lined the walls, looking down on them with cold reserve. Lighter patches on the wall marked where other paintings might once have hung. Opulent armchairs clustered around a cold and empty fireplace. Without the crackling comfort of those flames, the room was chilly and forbidding.

Two men in plate armour could never be totally silent, but they crept as quietly as they could through the empty room. Cullen’s gaze flicked restlessly from corner to shadow to corner, more alert than ever for the tiniest movement or inconsistency. The abomination couldn’t have strayed too far.

They approached a door at the far end of the room. Cullen forced it open.

And stumbled into a familiar room. A magical barrier illuminated the antechamber with an even glow. His heart shuddered in his chest as he saw the lurid purple barrier in front of him. He laid a tentative hand on the obstruction. His gauntlet transmitted a faint vibration through his arm and all the way to his boots. Still, dispelling a barrier was a simple task for any templar. He pulled on the lyrium that sang in his blood and … the barrier shattered. The scent of free mana filled the air.

His eyes narrowed. This was a scene with which he was intimately familiar. More than any other location or memory, its features had seared themselves into his mind during the interminable days spent there. It wasn’t comforting, but it was something to which he had grown accustomed. Every cracked flagstone. Every stain of rot and blood. Every dead body. The ever-changing tone of screams in the air. And the details were all utterly wrong. Any one of his nightmares was more believable than this weak falsehood.

“No. I might have wished that had happened, but it did not, demon. I have endured far worse than these simple temptations.”

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was faced with a darkened corridor. There was a grating shriek of sheer concentrated rage. Cullen flinched as the shriek rose to a painfully intense volume. The air in front of him shimmered and coalesced into the form of the abomination. It looked less human now, more like the demon that possessed the body. Purpling skin bulged unnaturally as the demon strove to force its will on the physical world. Limbs had lengthened, become narrower. The first hints of curling horns emerged from its brow. Eyes were lit by the traces of a lambent glitter.

He couldn’t prevent the reaction. He froze in horror as the image of the tormentor that haunted his dreams sprang into real, physical life inches away from him.

The abomination shrieked again and slashed sharply downward with razored talons. The slash cut right through the steel of his breastplate, through the chainmail and cloth, and tore parallel gashes in his chest. The slash was followed by a prickling in his skin as the lyrium that permeated his body diffused the magic imbuing the strike. Cullen gasped in pain and dropped to one knee, a hand leaping to his chest. His palm came away soaked in blood.

 _Maker give me strength_ , he prayed desperately as he forced himself to his feet and raised his weapons. _I survived Kinloch Hold. I cannot fall now after all I have endured._

From behind him, there was a gasp and a rattle of plate. Lain had emerged from whatever vision had caught him.

With an effort, Cullen blanked out conscious thought and retreated gladly into raw instinct. He deflected the next slash with his shield and followed with a riposte that cut a deep slash across the abomination’s chest in reflection of his own.

It responded with a bolt of spirit energy that crackled across his skin and knocked him back. He kept his feet and stepped neatly to one side to avoid the cone of cold ice that followed. The fringes of the blast froze the cloth of his robes to stiff boards.

Lain slid into the gap Cullen had left just as the abomination shimmered out of view again. His mind returned to conscious thought and he became aware again of the dull ache and the thundering of his heart.

“Andraste’s flaming sword!” Lain swore. “I am so sorry, Ser.”

Cullen pointed to the splashes of black blood on the floor. “It cannot evade us now.”

Lain’s eyes widened as he spotted the gashes in Cullen’s armour. “Knight-Captain, you’re hurt.”

He glanced down at the injury. “It’s not a problem.” _Maker, I hope so._ He already felt vaguely light-headed.

Lain stepped in front of him before Cullen could advance. “All due respect, Ser, but with your injury, I had better take point. The Knight-Commander will have my head if I let you get yourself killed.”

Cullen hesitated for a moment, reluctant to allow the templar to take the more dangerous position in his stead. But he was a liability injured. “After you, Ser Lain.”

They moved cautiously down the corridor, following the splashes of blood. Cullen attempted to ignore the irregular drip as he left his own red trail. Cullen caught Lain by the shoulder just in time to stop him before he stepped directly on a rune trap. Rather than dispelling it, they edged around the dull glowing lines on the floor.

The corridor opened out into a grand dining room, illuminated by the final rays of sunlight through tall windows. A splash of blood marked the table, and then the wall just below the window. Cullen blinked as the bright light caught in his eyes.

And opened them to the sight of the main hall of the Denerim cathedral. Muted rustles of movement echoed back from the vaulted ceiling high above. Ranks of his fellow new initiates stood to either side and behind him. The training officer stepped up to the front of the hall, list of assignments in hand. But where he should have been standing in front of the ornately carved wooden statue of Andraste that graced the Denerim cathedral, a statue in gleaming bronze scraped the ceiling.

“Ser Cullen Rutherford. Honnleath chantry. Arling of Redcliffe.”

He fought away the vision with a grim smile. Even less convincing than the others. Did it really think he would ever choose an easy life over his duty, his calling as a Templar? The temptations it offered were easy to deny. The vision of Denerim shattered and his heart rate steadied. Still too fast with restrained fear, but not panic anymore.

“Maker preserve us,” muttered Lain beside him.

“Isn’t this what you _want,_ Knight-Captain?” a voice called out from somewhere around them. “These are your nightmares made right. I’m offering you a world where none of that ever happened to you.”

“The Maker willed it happen,” he called out. “Whatever scars my past left on me are mine to keep. I wish only to serve, and I already have that. I do not need your false comforts.” _Duty is all I desire._ He had spent the last six years eliminating weaknesses to make that true.

There was a shimmer, an inconsistency in the air in the corner of the room. Cullen drew on lyrium. The room lit with brilliant white that outshone the weak sunlight as he called a smite down on the abomination. It shrieked again and blurred forwards. He managed to step to one side just quickly enough for it to miss him by a hair’s breadth. His blade drew another long slash along the abomination’s side as it passed. Another brilliant flash and crack filled the room as Lain called down his own smite. The abomination staggered, dazed by the pair of strikes.

The air hummed as the pair of them enforced a denial of magic, damping the abomination’s access to the fade. Little use in hiding now.

It raised an arm and a thick streamer of Cullen’s spilt blood spun into the air to form into ribbons that orbited the abomination’s body. Lashing tendrils formed and whipped out towards Cullen and Lain. They caught the blows, but even through armour, Cullen could feel the boiling energy that each strike held.

There were heavy pounding footsteps from the corridor behind them. Templars sprinting in full armour. Reinforcements, or had the abomination forced them to obey?

A tendril curled around Cullen’s sword arm and held him in a vice-like grip. He hissed in pain as it tightened. Lain diverted an icy blast from the abomination and darted forwards, underneath the ribbons of blood. He stabbed up through the abomination’s chest. A stray tendril caught his cheek and he yelped as his blood boiled in response. But the abomination fell into a crouch and clasped a taloned hand to its chest as blackened blood oozed out.

Cullen gritted his teeth and tossed his sword to his off-hand. A sharp slash severed the tendril that held him.

The first templar burst into the room, blade held ready. Then another.

Lain managed to force his way through the pain and whipped his sword around to pierce through the abomination’s chest again. The attack was weak, but enough to keep it down. Cullen’s own strike followed quickly to decapitate the abomination. The streamers of blood dropped and painted the floor with gory trails of red.

The sound of pounding feet faltered and the first two templar arrivals lowered their swords. “What-”

“Thank the Maker,” Lain gasped. He dropped to his hands and knees, limbs twitching with barely-contained agony. Angry red veins spiralled across his face from the shallow wound where the blood magic tendril had grazed him.

June jogged into the room and took in the scene. She seemed unwilling to meet his eyes. Guilt? “Thank the Maker. You’re both alive!”

Cullen sheathed his weapons and held his arm protectively in front of the aching gashes on his chest. “We need to search the building. Check whether the inhabitants are still alive,” he ordered through teeth gritted against the sharp ache.

Her eyes widened as she spotted the injury. “Andraste preserve me, you’re badly injured, Ser. We have to get you and Lain to the Gallows infirmary immediately.”

From his crouch on the floor, Lain waved a limp arm. “No. Ser. I’ll. Be fine.” He panted.

Cullen paced over to Lain and helped him into one of the chairs lining the dining room’s table. “I’ll watch over Ser Lain. Search the building.”

“Ser,” she responded reluctantly to the crisp order.

After they had marched out, Cullen allowed himself to slump into the chair beside Lain. With the abomination dead, he allowed himself a moment to feel infinitely grateful that he was alive, free, and sane. It had been inevitable, but a large part of him had prayed to never ever cross paths with a desire demon again. That the temptations it had presented had been so weak and  — as importantly — so different to those he had been faced with before gave him a tiny fragment of hope. _Perhaps the weaknesses that gave Desire a hold over me have been eliminated_. A wall of duty to keep out personal desires.

It wasn’t until he heard Lain’s voice joining his that he realised he had been softly reciting the Chant. The familiar words tumbled from his lips in a smooth stream. A soothing habit to drown memory and regain strength through faith.

Cullen looked the other templar over again. The uncontrolled tremors in his limbs had slowed, although his eyes were still squeezed shut with pain. His quiet murmur of the Chant dried up and a trace of guilt wormed into his mind.There was still so much to be done before he could answer for his failings. Some weaknesses hadn’t been eliminated. If he hadn’t frozen, hadn’t received the injury, perhaps Lain wouldn’t be suffering in quiet agony now. Or perhaps there might have been a way to avoid the abomination captivating so many templars. Or… a thousand ways to second-guess himself. Little use after the fact, but the guilt always remained.

Lain flicked a quick look over to Cullen when he fell silent. “I’ll be fine, Ser,” he repeated, speech a little smoother as the pain faded. “But thank you for staying.”

“You will,” Cullen confirmed. “You’re lucky it was only a glancing blow. But we’ll get you to the infirmary as soon as we return to the Gallows.”

“Maker.” He coughed out a laugh. “All due respect, Ser, but,” He paused to draw in a pained breath, “you need that more than me.”

“Focus on your own recovery.” The robes under his breastplate were beginning to feel unpleasantly slick with blood. But the wounds were relatively shallow. Without the protection from layers of plate and chainmail, the blow would have eviscerated him.

“Knight-Captain,” called June as she strode back into the room, Lord Hastis stumbling at her heels. The man looked dazed, but no longer blank. “We found him unconscious in one of the rooms on the first floor.”

Cullen stood up sharply. “Thank the Maker. And the servants?”

Her expression darkened. “A few are still alive, but they’re mostly dead, Ser. Used to fuel the blood magic that led to his possession, I would assume.”

Lord Hastis looked ill as he looked over the broken corpse in his dining room. “I don’t know why I took him in when he came to me.” He looked over to June. “Thank you, Ser…”

“Ser June,” she supplied. “But Knight-Captain Cullen and Ser Lain did the hard work.”

Cullen nodded, but he couldn’t keep the frown from his face. “You should have informed the Order when your brother returned. Trust that we know best how to handle matters like this.”

The man’s eyes flickered with sick fascination to the tears in Cullen’s breastplate. He gulped. “Yes. Well. Thank you greatly for your assistance, Knight-Captain Cullen.”

Without really meaning it, Cullen’s eyelids drooped and he swayed on his feet slightly. “Simply doing our duty, Serah. The Chantry will handle the bodies. I’ll leave a pair of templars here for your protection until then.”

His eyes widened. “My protection?”

“A precaution until the bodies are removed,” Cullen responded. Kirkwall was unpleasantly prone to cases of possession, of the living and dead. _And to ensure you suffer no adverse effects from the maleficar_ _’s hold on your mind,_ Cullen added silently. The influence might not have fully faded, despite the death of the abomination. He fought off another droop of his eyes.

June’s brows lowered with concern. She extended a hand to shake Lord Hastis’. “I’ll leave my two best men here for you. The rest of us must report back to the Gallows. Please do not hesitate to contact the Order if you have any concerns.”

“Of- of course,” the man responded with confusion as he shook her hand limply. “Thank you again. You have my gratitude.”

June caught Cullen’s elbow as he swayed again. “To the Gallows, Ser,” she suggested politely.

Their descent through Hightown and Lowtown to the docks passed by Cullen in a blur. He knew the source of the haze. Even with a temporary binding to stem the flow of blood, he had lost plenty. And with that too, a loss of lyrium.

June dismissed her men and delivered Lain and Cullen — deferentially — to the infirmary before leaving to report to the Knight-Commander. It wasn’t until the infirmary’s chief healer stood in front of him with a worried frown that the haze cleared to be replaced with a fresh wave of panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not a cliffhanger kind of writer, so enjoy a pretty terrible one, courtesy of the fact that this chapter got way too long.
> 
> Meeting another desire demon is something I’ve been reserving for late on in the fic. I maybe could have handled the event differently, but it was fun anyway. You may note that it uses very different visions to taunt Cullen than in Kinloch. That is entirely intentional part of how I believe his character progressed in Kirkwall.


	28. Scars

**23 rd Wintermarch 9:37 Dragon**

The abomination’s talons had torn through layers of steel, chain and cloth. With Cullen’s breastplate and mail shirt removed, the damage was glaringly obvious. His templar robes had been dyed an even deeper shade of red by the blood that soaked them, and the embroidered sunburst had been torn to shreds. The parallel slashes visible through the tears were ragged, and a few links of shattered chainmail from the mail shirt had dug into the skin.

The healer pushed aside the rips in Cullen’s robe with brusque efficiency. He tutted and frowned. “I’m afraid you’ll need magical healing for this, Knight-Captain. Without, it will take weeks to heal properly. Frankly, I’m impressed you managed to walk all the way back from Hightown without falling over.”

Cullen’s breastplate on the floor beside him clanked as he reflexively flinched backwards. “Magical healing shouldn’t be necessary.” He barely managed to keep the dread out of his words. “It hasn’t been required before.”

The eyes of the nearest templars in the room turned to him for a moment at the pitch of his voice before turning politely away.

The healer folded his arms and obstinately blocked Cullen’s escape. “Not this time, Knight-Captain. It took you three _days_ to come to us after you cracked your ribs during the Qunari invasion. This isn’t some minor scrape, an elfroot poultice isn’t going to fix it.” He looked over his shoulder and called out to the infirmary’s resident spirit healer. “Enchanter Galas. Over here.”

“Really, this isn’t necessary,” Cullen protested, on the edge of genuine panic.

The healer spared another dismissive glance for Cullen. “It will heal much faster with magical assistance. I needn’t remind you that I have authority on matters of health. There’s no need for you to prove to me how stoic you are.”

Cullen closed his eyes and focused on his tight breathing. Now was really not the time for panic. Not in an infirmary full of templars. Nor any time, really.

The healer kept himself placed in Cullen’s way until the mage stood by his side. He indicated the lacerations to Cullen’s chest. “Let’s get the Knight-Captain fixed up as quickly as possible. I’m sure he’s eager to get right back to smiting abominations.”

The spirit healer nodded crisply. He was one of the few mages in the Gallows not confined to his quarters with every other mage, but if he resented the templar who had suggested and now enforced the lockdown, it wasn’t apparent behind his professional expression. “If you would sit down please, Knight-Captain.”

“I’d rather stand.” Bad enough to be forced to face magical healing. To be faced with even the vaguest repeat of the days he had spent 'recovering' in Kinloch Hold didn't bear thinking. To be forced to idleness, with nothing but terror and guilt as companions, had been its own kind of horror. And through it all, the creeping fear that the reality he saw was just another illusion crafted by the demon. He pushed away the memory.

The mage raised an eyebrow that seemed to say, _not my fault if you fall over._ He rubbed his palms together and then hovered a hand over Cullen’s chest. Cullen shuddered as the first exploratory traces of magic tingled against his skin. If the spirit healer sensed the elevated heart rate and breathing, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he turned to the infirmary’s chief healer. “No major organ damage, but there’s a lot to knit back together. It’ll take a little time.”

“I’ll leave you to it then, Enchanter. Check on Ser Lain when you’re done.”

The spirit healer turned back to Cullen. “You should know how this works, Knight-Captain, but it’s worth repeating,” he began in a bored tone of voice as he raised his hands again. No doubt he had said the same thing countless times. “I can fix the damage, but it’s a slow process what with all the lyrium in you. I need to pour a lot of magic in to overcome that resistance, so I would kindly request your patience.”

The explanation most decidedly did not help. The taste of magic filled the air again, and Cullen felt cold tingles on his skin as the spirit healer began his work. The tingling rose to a fever pitch before he he began to feel his flesh crawl as it knitted back together. Combined with the pull of lyrium in his blood and the feel of magic so very close to him, and Cullen’s mind screamed for him to do something, _anything_.

His gaze flicked feverishly from the sickly green glow emanating from the spirit healer’s palms to the ceiling above and back again, time and again. _Control,_ he urged himself, _this mage is not a threat to you._

_I have faced armies_

_With You as my shield,_

_And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing_

_Can break me except Your absence._

The words only just managed to take his mind off what was happening mere inches away from him. Finally, he could bear the touch of magic no longer. “Enough.” He almost tumbled backwards, away from the magic that streamed from the spirit healer’s palms.

“You’re not yet fully healed,” he objected.

“I can endure it,” he ground out and strode as quickly as he could out of the suddenly too cramped infirmary.

In a quiet corner of the corridors outside, he collapsed to one knee and retched. He closed his eyes, clasped trembling hands and whispered his way through the rest of the Canticle of Trials until his heart no longer felt like it was attempting to fight its way out of his chest. When his knees had steadied enough to bear his weight again, he stood. With the Chant still unconsciously spilling from his lips, Cullen leaned against the wall and stared up at the ceiling, focusing entirely on counting the blocks of which it was composed. His heart fluttered under his palm, obvious without layers of steel plate and chainmail to hide it.

 _At least it was better than last time,_ he thought weakly. Until now, the injuries he had sustained in Kirkwall had been minor enough that he could convince the healers that a mage wasn’t necessary. The last time he had faced a mage healer had been immediately after the breaking of the Circle. Then, he had sent the mage hurtling across the room in his panic. The first of the incidents that had led to Knight-Commander Greagoir’s request to transfer him.

He tried to pull himself back into a semblance of professionalism and normality as rapid footsteps entered the quiet corridor to which he had fled.

“What’s this the Enchanter is telling me about you leaving before you’re fully healed, Knight-Captain?”

Cullen gently touched the wounds and suppressed a wince. “I’m fine,” he replied curtly.

The infirmary’s chief healer rolled his eyes and cast a dubious look over the obvious scabbed cuts visible through the rips in his robes. “Maker’s breath, you most certainly are not. Let the spirit healer finish. You have access to the most effective healing in Kirkwall, don’t let it go to waste.”

“R-really, I’d rather just let the rest heal n-naturally.” He broke eye contact in embarrassment at the stutter, if not the sentiment. The request sounded a little too close to the plea he knew it was. What kind of shameful way was this for a Knight-Captain to act?

The healer’s face reddened with irritation, but he stopped before opening his mouth with a rebuke. His gaze skimmed over the evidence. Cullen’s elevated breathing. Impossible to hide, even behind a cloak of professionalism. The contents of his stomach in the corner. Hands clasped behind his back to hide the tremor.

A different look entered his eyes. Not sympathy, thank the Maker, but the light of understanding. Cullen allowed himself to believe that perhaps he wasn’t the first templar to suffer such crippling terrors.

“I can bind it for you, let it heal by itself,” he offered calmly. “The damage is mostly superficial now, but it will scar.”

“Thank you. I would prefer that.” _Infinitely preferable_. Cullen looked back at the obvious evidence of his weakness. “I’ll, ah...”

The healer waved away the aborted offer. “The affirmed clean things like that up all the time.” He shook his head. “The number of times I’ve had templars in here who have overindulged in Kirkwall taverns…” He didn’t seem to expect any response to his chatter as he led Cullen back into the infirmary. “I sort them out just enough to send them to you or Knight-Commander Meredith. I am consistently amazed with how often it happens, what with the reprimands and hangovers they suffer.”

He sat Cullen down on the edge of a bed. Without any word or acknowledgement, it was the position furthest from the spirit healer, now tending to Lain. But still facing in the mage’s direction, so Cullen could see what was happening as gentle threads of the spirit healer’s magic drew a muted reaction from the lyrium in his blood.

The healer pulled out bandages and an elfroot poultice. “There was a Knight-Templar I helped put back together after a particularly nasty failed Harrowing, back when I was an affirmed lay brother,” he commented idly as he began applying the poultice. The mild twinges of pain were easy to ignore. “By all accounts it was a brutal event. He and Knight-Commander Guylian were the only survivors. He screamed himself hoarse when we brought in a spirit healer to tend to his wounds. He had to be sedated before we could heal him.”

Cullen hoped his shiver could be accounted for by the cold poultice on his chest. “I have heard that such things can happen,” he responded neutrally. “The calling as a Templar can be a harsh one at times. I assume he continued to serve.”

The healer chuckled dryly. “But of course. You Templars serve at the Chantry’s pleasure, do you not? More so even than a Brother like me. Apparently he couldn’t look at a mage straight after that. Couldn’t hold his sword without dropping it. Lyrium didn’t help. He was transferred to Val Royeaux a few months later.”

Val Royeaux. Where ageing templars retired when they could no longer function, be it mental deterioration due to lyrium or … other factors. Anything that the Chantry preferred the public and young bright-eyed templars not see. Everyone knew what it meant when a templar was transferred to Val Royeaux. Greenfell was a tame destination in comparison.

The healer gave Cullen a penetrating look. Who in the Gallows hadn’t heard the origins of their Fereldan Knight-Captain? “There is no shame to it. I have seen many templars pass through here in the past twenty years. Some fare better than others, against all odds, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen looked away. “Perhaps.” The reply was noncommittal.

The wound was bound tightly, but the healer blocked Cullen from standing after he had pulled his robes back on over cuisses and greaves. “I’d warn you to avoid exertion until it’s fully healed, but I know that’s futile. At the very least, avoid morning drills for the next week.” He looked significantly in the direction of the spirit healer. “Unfortunately, I will have to request Knight-Commander Meredith to order you to take magical healing if you let the wounds open again. Come back in three days so I can change the bindings and check your progress.”

“I can make no promises about avoiding exertion,” Cullen remarked. Under the healer’s non-judgemental care, it was easy to recover his customary detached professionalism. “I have work to do, and I won’t simply sit to one side because of a minor injury.”

“Minor? A decent amount of your blood is on your robes.” The healer chuckled incredulously. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that from the templar who thought cracked ribs weren’t an issue.” He hesitated. “I can offer a sleeping drau-”

“No.” Cullen cut him off before adding a belated and reluctant thanks. A sleeping draught would most decidedly not improve things. It would simply take control from him and prevent him from waking from his nightmares.

The sharp sound of salutes echoed in the infirmary as Meredith entered. Unarmed. Even she avoided antagonising Templar Hall’s healers. She scanned the infirmary until her gaze fell on where Cullen sat. She marched over and cast a glower over the healer. “Leave us. Please.”

“Take care of your injuries, Knight-Captain,” the healer admonished Cullen as he backed away. “All of them.”

Cullen snapped up to a standing position and saluted. “Knight-Commander. I had intended to report to you as soon as we returned to the Gallows.”

She frowned. “At risk of your own health, no doubt. Ser June provided an initial summary. Four of the five locations you visited bore fruit. Congratulations. But her description of events at the final location was understandably incomplete. Report.”

The cold efficiency of the report almost made it easy to relate the events. He finished with a crisp summary. “One templar dead. Two injured: Knight-Templar Lain and myself. One abomination killed. Two apostates returned to the Circle. Information on the expected destination of a third. Further investigation recommended for the apostate Emile de Launcet. Caution recommended given the likelihood of blood magic.”

Meredith smiled with satisfied approval. “Ser Conrad had similar success. Only at two locations did people seem to be concealing information. The alienage and Darktown. Hardly a surprise. There is little love lost for the Order in either place.” She tapped her chin. “I do believe that now is an excellent opportunity for us to have the champion prove her loyalty.”

Cullen nodded his agreement. “People might be more willing to speak to the Champion than us. Regrettably.” He looked — futilely — around the infirmary for his damaged armour. The mail shirt was a loss, as was his breastplate, and the pauldrons couldn’t be worn without them. But he felt too light without any of it. “I can lead the investigation of the remaining Hightown locations tomorrow, Knight-Commander.”

A trace of an amused smiled crossed her face. “You have been injured. By my order, you will give yourself a day to recover. Ser Conrad and Ser June will work together. Perhaps two Knights-Lieutenant might have the value of a single Knight-Captain to the nobility of Hightown.”

“I can still do my duty, Knight-Commander,” he protested. “The injury is healed.” _Mostly._

“Brother Azar is exceedingly predictable. I would imagine he requested you avoid exerting yourself, and I am inclined to agree. I would rather my Knight-Captain not kill himself. I find it quite miraculous that this didn’t happen sooner, given how eager you are to throw yourself into danger. Although I hardly set the best example myself.”

“Simply doing my duty as best I can, Knight-Commander.” Cullen sighed but saluted reluctantly. “As you order, I will rest.”

She began to turn away but stopped. “You have rid Kirkwall of another abomination and returned apostates to the Circle. It is always good to see a templar remain true to their calling. The city thanks you.”

It wasn’t until she left that he realised she had been the most good-humoured he had seen her for weeks. In fact, she had acted much as he recalled from his early days in Kirkwall. Not a single comment that had given him cause for concern. He was glad. It was _tiring_ to spend every moment watching her every move, second-guessing his concerns at every turn. Right now, he hadn’t the strength.

Cullen slipped out of the infirmary before the healers could stop him. Avoiding exertion was one matter, avoiding work entirely was something he wasn’t willing to consider. His first stop was to exchange torn robes for immaculate new ones. His next stop was the armoury to have the tranquil size replacement armour to fit. His desire to return to his duties was further stymied when he was informed the replacements wouldn’t be ready for another four days. With a frustrated growl he resigned himself to nothing but reports and paperwork. That would not be enough to engage his mind as he so desperately wanted.

Orsino’s look didn’t hold a touch of curiosity as Cullen passed by the open door of his office. The sight of Cullen in only his robes, without armour, ought to have drawn an amused remark. But the eyes that met his were almost studiously blank. It wasn’t an improvement on the bitter arguments of the previous days. Orsino was one of the only mages now allowed out of his quarters for an extended period of time. Apprentices were still required to attend lessons, albeit under heavy guard. And the harrowed mages were still escorted to meals, again under heavy guard. But regular life in the Circle had come to a crashing halt. Relations in the Gallows had not been good in the days since the shattered phylacteries had been discovered. Perhaps Meredith might be convinced to cancel the lockdown once the final apostates had been recaptured or killed.

He buried himself in his work. With four apostates found and another still under investigation, there was more than enough to report. And when there was nothing left after the midnight bell, he leaned back in his chair, reluctant to return to his quarters. Too confined, and he knew nightmares would follow him into sleep. The peace of the chantry beckoned. He wasn’t sure whether to plea for forgiveness for his failings, or be thankful he had been given the strength to survive relatively unscathed, in mind and body. He allowed himself a moment to be infinitely grateful that the visions forced on him by the demon had been so different to what he had faced in Kinloch Hold. He prayed the old shameful desires had been buried too deep to be weaknesses any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This mini-chapter was originally going to be longer. I made a last-minute change because I wasn't convinced the second section really fit my vision of character progression in the fic.


	29. An Argument of Many Sides

**25 th Wintermarch 9:37 Dragon**

Cullen had thought that an extended lockdown of the Circle would mean that the tension he’d never quite been able to shake might finally die down. Aside from the Formari workshops and the apprentice training halls, the only figures to be seen in the Circle’s corridors were the silent and statue-like forms of templars at their watch posts. It should have been reassuring. Instead, the stillness that filled the Circle was ominous. That foreboding sense certainly shouldn’t have extended to Templar Hall, but it did. In a force consisting of hundreds of men and women, all confined to a relatively small location, there was always going to be some unrest to manage. More so given the very real threat of death and with how overworked they all were. But walk into the mess hall or the barracks and the divisions between different groups were so obvious that they might as well have been painted in the air. It wasn’t even as simple as for or against Meredith’s decisions — even if anyone had been willing to openly admit to disagreeing with her to Cullen. The fragmentation was far more complex than that. And there was absolutely nothing he could do to resolve it.

 _Thankfully, there are more than enough distractions,_ Cullen thought as he drew his focus back to the present and guiltily pulled his eyes away from Meredith’s fascinating sword. Knights-Lieutenant Conrad and June had reported back from their final enquiries. Those apostates that weren’t dead had either been returned to the Circle or had fled far enough that it was now up to Knight-Lieutenant Forthrin and his scouts to track them down. Only three cases were unresolved. Now, with midnight fast approaching, the records for those final three apostates lay spread over Meredith’s desk. In the corner, still enough that it would have been easy to miss her, Meredith’s tranquil assistant waited patiently. Her expression was smooth, but she absorbed every word as Cullen and Meredith discussed the cases.

Meredith picked up the first document and tilted it to catch the light of the lantern on her desk. “Emile de Launcet, originally from Hightown. You spoke to his family yourself.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” Cullen responded crisply. “His mother had little to say to us, but I can’t believe he never contacted his family given how regularly he communicated with them. Judging by his record, I wouldn’t have predicted he would turn to apostasy, but stranger things have happened,” he added wearily as he discreetly attempted to knead away a headache. It was downright irritating how often he ended up with one within minutes of walking into Meredith’s office recently. Must have been a sign of the times, or simply overwork. It was like the dog whistle a neighbour from Honnleath had owned to call his particularly uncooperative mabari. Every time he had blown it, that non-sound had triggered a splitting headache.

He’d have said it was some especially subtle form of blood magic, but clearly Meredith had no such issues. Her response was sharp enough to make Cullen wince. “Even the most harmless mage might turn. Personality changes are one major indicator of blood magic or possession. So, caution advised.” She picked up the next. “Evelina of Ferelden. Originally from Kinloch Hold. Supposedly fled at the start of the Blight to escape the darkspawn, well before the Circle’s fall. She handed herself willingly in to the Circle in Kirkwall with a request for funds to support her dependents perhaps a year after the Blight was defeated. That in itself is cause for suspicion. Given her strange circumstances, we never received her full records. Lost during the breaking of Ferelden’s Circle by all accounts.” She spared a brief glance for Cullen. “If I recall correctly, you mentioned at the time that her case was not familiar?”

Cullen suppressed a brief shudder. “I’m afraid so, Knight-Commander. My duties at the time didn’t include hunting apostates.” _Maker, I was barely a year into my service when the Blight began. I wasn_ _’t qualified for much more than standing watch._ “But a story of fleeing darkspawn seems unlikely. The darkspawn army began in the south, far from Lake Calenhad. And until the breaking of the Circle, Kinloch Hold was one of the most secure locations in Ferelden. There would have been no reason to feel the need to flee. Frankly, many in the Circle were unconvinced the darkspawn threat even was a true Blight until the Hero of Ferelden came to request aid.” He sent up a brief prayer of gratitude. Not even the slightest hitch in his words as he had recounted the details. He drummed his fingers on her desk distractedly. “Was her request for funds approved?”

“Even had they been blood relatives, neither the Circle nor the Order is a charity.” Meredith shrugged easily. “We could not afford to provide funds for the family of every mage in Thedas.”

“That refusal might have given her cause for dissatisfaction. She already has a previous history of apostasy and escape from a Circle. Hardly the most promising combination of factors.”

Meredith made a note on the report. “So, another potential risk.” She opened the final record. “Huon of the Kirkwall alienage. My greatest concerns lie here. He was an apostate for many years before he was brought to the Circle in 9:27. Whilst his wife claimed not to have seen him, it is possible that he might yet make an attempt to contact her.” She tossed the papers back down on her desk with disgust. “Two irredeemable apostates. I find I am not surprised.”

“You still mean to request the Champion’s assistance?” His headache flared a little stronger at that thought. Not too long ago, Meredith had stopped all work with outsiders. Now she was trusting a known apostate with tracking three others. There was too much potential for disaster.

“Indeed I do. Whilst her words of support were greatly appreciated, I intend to discover whether it was simply an attempt to curry favour.  An apostate is hardly the most likely person to side with the Order.”

“Her continued support would be invaluable,” he conceded reluctantly before pausing. “Although I worry that her very public status as an apostate may do the Order more harm than good in the long term.”

“At that point, we will have no choice but to cut all ties. Until then, we shall see,” Meredith responded contemplatively. She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and raised her quill. “Thank you, Cullen. That will be all for tonight.”

The headache and burgeoning nausea eased within minutes of Cullen leaving to breathe the cool winter air that filled Templar Hall’s darkened courtyard.

**27 th Wintermarch 9:37 Dragon**

Cullen cast a practised eye over the Formari workshop’s new setup. Memorised rules, procedures and measurements skimmed through his head. Precisely arranged worktables. Neatly stored alchemical reagents and ingredients. Wide areas for spell casting, with the precise spacing needed to avoid unintentional discharges. Everything ordered to the exacting standards that would best avoid magical accidents. The configuration fell precisely into the specifications they had been trained to recognise. In that perfect layout, even a single item out of place would have stood out.

He turned to the Knight-Corporal beside him. “I fail to see the issue. Nothing is out of order here.”

“That’s precisely the problem, Ser. Enchanter Filip rearranged this all yesterday. I can’t even recall the number of times he’s been cited for unsafe practice. And now this, especially only five days after the lockdown was established?” She gestured towards the immaculate workroom. “This is precise enough to have come right out of our training. I can’t believe a mage that set in his ways just decided to change to make us feel better.”

Cullen paced around the spotless room. “He didn’t ask you to do it,” he stated.

There weren’t even scuff marks on the floor to indicate where the worktables had been dragged. A flagrant display of magic to move them into new positions. That in itself wasn’t strictly forbidden. Some Circles even encouraged the use of magic for trivial tasks as an exercise in control. But to do so whilst the Gallows was in lockdown was as good as a taunt. Even a taunt wasn’t entirely unexpected given the attitude Orsino had encouraged in the Gallows. But the Knight-Corporal was right. Something was off. At least he had received replacement armour just in time for such concerns. His chest twinged briefly to remind him that replacement armour didn't mean he was healed. It would have to be sufficient.

“Maker, no. Although we watched him, of course. My men know better than to let themselves be ordered around by a mage anyway.” The Knight-Corporal took another few steps into the workshop and inspected a shelf of alchemical ingredients critically. Not alphabetised, as some might prefer for ease of use, but precisely ordered so that reactive ingredients were as far from each other as possible. In every way, a model setup. She raised a hand to take in the entire room. “He pays attention to the reprimands for a week or two, then goes back to his old ways. This doesn’t feel right.”

Abrupt changes in personality or habits. A characteristic sign of possession. And a sudden attention to detail from a previously absentminded mage? That suggested Pride. A motivation that might encourage a mage to better the achievements of his associates or prove his worth. Even Desire was not out of the question, he thought with a shiver. Any of the higher demons might pass unnoticed beyond the Fade rather than immediately corrupting its host.

“Bring the Enchanter to the interview rooms.”

She nodded gravely at that. “At once, Knight-Captain.” She paused in the doorway. “Should I summon the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter?”

“That would be best.” He hesitated. Inflicting a Knight-Corporal with the duty of waking the Knight-Commander was hardly kind, especially without being completely certain that there was good reason. “Wait. I’ll fetch the Knight-Commander. But you have my authority to escort the First Enchanter down from his chamber.”

She looked faintly relieved as she saluted. “Ser.”

“And search the mage’s chamber once he’s clear,” Cullen called after her.

Strictly, with most workshops out of use for the past five days, there was little reason to continue inspections. But routine was hard to break, even given the upheaval of an extended lockdown of the Circle. The vast majority of the time, there was absolutely nothing to find. The lockdown should have reduced any concerns in the Circle. _Maker_ _’s breath,_ Cullen sighed to himself as he strode out of the workshop, o _f course life couldn_ _’t be so simple._ _Now of all times we need the Circle to be peaceful._ Preying on the back of his mind was the letter Meredith had sent to the Divine a matter of days ago, directly bypassing Grand Cleric Elthina, who still advocated for a peaceful resolution. No one seemed much interested in that any more. He flicked his eyes up in a brief fervent prayer. _Maker, a few weeks with no trouble is all I ask. Enough that Knight-Commander Meredith might not see the need for the Right of Annulment._

“Knight-Captain!” The mage glanced up in startled surprise as Cullen entered the interview room. He blinked owlishly, still hazy from the lateness of the hour. “I hadn’t realised I was important enough to draw the attention of a Circle commanding officer. Certainly not in the dead of night.”  He tried on a tentative smile. “Reminds me of my Harrowing.”

“I would rather deal with this sooner than later,” Cullen replied as he closed the door behind him.

The chains about the mage’s wrists clattered as he tested the strength of their connection to the thick ring embedded in the stone table. “Surely this isn’t necessary?”

Cullen leaned against the wall opposite the mage and folded his arms. An outwardly nonthreatening posture, but one that gave him distance to react and kept his hands closer to the sword on his back.

“Merely a precaution,” he responded evenly. He drew on lyrium to enforce a denial of magic. The smooth hum almost masked the pounding of his heart. He had done this on numerous occasions. In rare cases, it amounted to nothing. Sometimes, signs could be misread. But the danger always remained that a maleficar or abomination would emerge. It was a precise balance to strike. Question just enough to make an accurate determination without actually causing a blood mage or abomination to strike out.

The mage winced as the effects of the denial made themselves know. “What have I done to raise suspicions?” He peered towards the door. “The First Enchanter should be here.”

“He will join us shortly.” He watched the mage’s eyes for any flickers or signs. Of one thing he was quite certain. There was no fear, despite circumstances that would have had most mages more than a little concerned, especially given the current elevated security. “You’ve recently greatly improved your working habits.”

“What of it?” he asked defensively, “The work the Formari do is incredibly important, my work even more so. The Tranquil do not innovate. They need people like me for that. I cannot lose my focus because of something as simple as a disordered working space.”

“Knight-Corporal Rosia informs me that your habits have been unchanged for years, despite multiple citations for unsafe practice.”

“It has been made astoundingly clear to me the past few days that I am given leave to continue working only at your sufferance. Forgive me if that made me more cautious.” His eyes narrowed, and the chains clanked as he leaned back in his chair. “I am tired of being constantly disturbed from my work, your thugs watching my every move from when I’m let out of my chambers in the morning to when I’m escorted back. I had templars breathing down my neck even before this ridiculous lockdown. It was time for a change.”

Cullen let the insult pass. Accusations were bound to bring out resentment. The question was whether that antagonism was a sign of something more dangerous.

“Recent … disruption in the Circle has made us more cautious. You understand we have a duty to investigate. Abrupt changes can be cause for concern. It may be a sign of forbidden magic. Conspiracy to flee the Circle.” He paused and tensed in anticipation. “Possession.”

The mage scowled, and a flicker of anger crossed his face. “I resent the implication. What would you know of any mage’s domain, let alone something as complex as the work I do?”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Templars are well-trained in magical affairs, as you should know.” He paused again and let an artificial smirk twist his mouth. Another push. “I would even suggest that we know more than you.”

The mage’s incredulous laugh reverberated a little too loudly in the room. He leaned forward suddenly his fingers digging into the table. “You know less than nothing, templar.”

There was a mild reaction from the lyrium in his blood as something tried to overcome the silencing effect that hummed in the air.

Every muscle in Cullen’s body tensed in anticipation. The best way to draw out Pride? Give it reason to proclaim its superiority. With an effort, he remained outwardly calm. “Perhaps. Mistakes do happen. I’d advise you to restrain yourself nonetheless.” Time for a change in direction. “Knight-Corporal Rosia found suspicious notes of yours.”

Not outwardly blood magic, but certainly notes on strengthening the potency of the potions on which he worked. Notes that read a lot like the spells that went into the creation of a phylactery. Any templar’s knowledge of magic was naturally academic, but he had more than enough training and experience to recognise the notation and the significance. A mage turns to blood magic and finds themselves suddenly vulnerable to possession. It had become a depressingly common tale.

The mage didn’t seem to credit them with that much competence. He chuckled. “Suspicious? How would you know?”

“We can hardly guard against forbidden magic if we couldn’t recognise it. What were you working on, and why keep it hidden in your chambers?”

Instead of looking concerned at the comment — as would any sane Circle mage when a templar claimed to have found suspicious research — he leaned back with a scowl. “What gives you the right to search my chambers?”

The interview room’s door creaked open and one the guards peered in cautiously. “The First Enchanter is here.”

The mage straightened as best as he could. “I demand-”

“You don’t demand anything,” Cullen cut him off sharply. “Wait.”

He swept from the room without a further word, sealing the door behind him with a sharp snap of locking bolts. There was nothing more he had permission to do now anyway. They would need the First Enchanter’s consent to make any overt moves against the mage. His insight would be needed to assess the suspicious notes too, assuming Meredith allowed him to read them. That seemed unlikely.

Orsino waited impatiently outside, flanked by the Knight-Corporal and one of her men. “It’s hours before dawn, Knight-Captain. What is so urgent that I needed to be woken and dragged down here?”

Cullen indicated the door behind him. “A possible threat to the Circle, First Enchanter.”

Orsino’s brows lowered. “I hope Meredith’s paranoia isn’t infecting you.”

“I am quite certain.” Cullen shook his head with frustration. “Your claim that mages of this Circle would never deal with demons or turn to blood magic might be proven wrong again.”

“Those you don’t have locked down every hour of the day are under impossible scrutiny. This is not a livable situation for anyone.” Orsino’s arms folded defensively as he spoke. “Are you truly surprised that a mage might turn to desperate measures for some respite when there seems to be no other hope?”

“That rather effectively proves the point that distrust and precautions are justified.” Cullen replied irritably. “Turning to demons and blood magic is not an acceptable response in _any_ situation. ”

Orsino’s exasperated sigh could have been heard from the other end of the corridor. He ignored Cullen’s question and raised his hands helplessly. “Why not simply follow Alrik’s example if you truly believe that mages can never be trusted? Instead, you’ve still maintained some semblance of normality to prove your righteousness. The Formari. The infirmary. Anything that might be a ‘benefit to society’ instead of a risk.”

Cullen almost gaped. After all the work he had done to remedy that failure. Now Orsino threw that accusation at him as if they hadn’t been united in their disgust and shame at failing to recognise the problem until too late. “That is an unjust accusation, and you know it.”

“Is it? I thought so once, but I find myself becoming rather cynical.” His eyes narrowed. “Ah, but of course,” he said with feigned realisation. “You and Meredith might not allow us liberty in our own home, but you are more than happy to take advantage of the money and services the Circle provides to sustain your army. I hear you required a spirit healer’s skills only a matter of days ago to deal with a rather severe injury. Somewhat hypocritical, wouldn’t you say?”

Cullen’s scowled in response and his hand rose unconsciously to his chest as a phantom tingle of magic shivered across his skin. “Not by choice. And that injury was gained tracking down one of the same mages you claim would never resort to blood magic.”

“You always have been honest in your distrust,” Orsino responded flatly, “I’ll allow that.”

“Would you rather I shut the Circle down entirely? The Formari sustain the Circle more than they sustain us,” snapped Meredith as she swept into the corridor. “You claim the Gallows has become a prison. It could become more so without the money generated by the Formari. They are under your control. But if you take issue with the continued service of the Formari, I would be more than happy to shut them down for you.”

Orsino turned abruptly from Cullen to stare down Meredith whilst she approached. His shoulders tightened as he recognised she had pushed him to another stalemate. A sudden smirk crossed his face. “If the Formari truly are under my control, I’m sure you’d be happy for me to begin selling mages’ staffs in the Gallows courtyard. After all, with all the apostates you keep rounding up, and the bloated number of templars housed here, we are always in need of more funds.”

Cullen surprised cough turned into a genuine laugh. “Selling mages’ staffs? Who in Andraste’s name do you think is going to buy them?” He shook his head with bemusement and a half-smile flickered across his face. “I suppose that would at least mean the apostates come to us rather than us having to find them. It might even be a good idea.”

Meredith was less amused. “Encouraging apostasy, Orsino?”

“You’d think I was encouraging rebellion and apostasy even if I sat in my office twiddling my thumbs all day.”

“If only you would.” She turned to Cullen, neatly cutting off any further conversation with Orsino. “You are certain this mage is a threat?”

Cullen’s amusement sobered in the face of her grim expression. “Quite, Knight-Commander. Ser Rosia found incriminating evidence in his chambers and his behaviour isn’t exactly reassuring. But I leave a complete assessment to you and the First Enchanter.”

“I will handle it immediately. This cannot be delayed.” She turned back to Orsino, who stood gently fuming at her snub. “We have an assessment to conduct. I expect your cooperation.”

Orsino held a hand out towards the door. “After you,” he offered sardonically.

It took a few hours. Time in which Cullen was given more than enough opportunity to exercise his ability to ignore the latent worry that plagued him. But the conclusion of their assessment would have been obvious to anyone without shouting range of Meredith’s office. From his own office, only a short distance away, the argument couldn’t have been clearer.

“- as good as in broad daylight! By the grace of the Maker, he was caught. But we cannot see this go unpunished.”

“Then punish those who let this happen under their noses!”

“Oh, have no fear of that.” Meredith’s voice had fallen to a deadly whisper by the time Cullen arrived in front of her open door. Her head snapped towards him as he approached. “Your suspicions were correct. There is an abomination in this Circle. It must be executed before it poses a further threat.”

Orsino butted back into the conversation, “Execution?! Tranquility is sufficient.”

“The Rite is useless once a mage is already possessed, as you well know. I will have your consent, or I have no choice but to believe you permitted his research and actions.”

Orsino sighed despondently and the tone of his voice lowered, “I would not have believed he would turn to blood magic had I not seen it with my own eyes. Fine. I approve.” He turned to Cullen. “I want Knight-Captain Cullen to do it. At least he won’t take pleasure in the act.”

“I would hold no regrets about keeping an abomination out of the Circle,” he found himself responding sharply, despite his surprise and disappointment at the request, “They can do incalculable damage.” Orsino was right that he wouldn’t enjoy acting as the executioner, but it was impossible to deny that sometimes duty demanded he be a cold blade.

Meredith’s took a step towards Orsino and folded her arms. Impossible to forget that the posture left her hands closer to the long hilt of the blade over her shoulder, just as Cullen had done earlier. “You do not make demands of the Order. The responsibility is mine, as it has always been.”

Cullen shuddered slightly. Did she seem … eager?

“Fine,” Orsino snapped. “I will not argue.”

Cullen’s eyebrows rose. Orsino had conceded incredibly quickly.

For a fraction of a second, Orsino turned a weighted look on Cullen. _Take note of her eagerness,_ that look seemed to say. Cullen turned away, a nauseous feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. Orsino didn’t know that Meredith had made an appeal for the Right of Annulment. If approval was given, it wouldn’t be just one mage facing execution. _Blessed are the peacekeepers,_ he thought bitterly.

**28 th Wintermarch 9:37 Dragon**

Cullen would have liked nothing more than to work out the building anxiety of the past week in dawn drills. The abomination had been dealt with by Meredith. But Orsino’s grim proclamation seemed unpleasantly like a promise. It seemed the First Enchanter expected cases of forbidden magic in the Circle to increase. It was certainly impossible to deny that increases in templar control hadn’t curbed outbreaks of maleficarum. If anything, the situation in Kirkwall was getting worse. But whatever Orsino demanded, the Order could not in good conscience step back. Not without leaving Kirkwall to deal with the demons and maleficarum alone.

Even leading one of the excursions into Kirkwall to handle one of those reports of demons or blood magic would have been enough to work out the tension. But the threat of being forced to complete a full course of magical healing made him less than eager to go against the healer’s orders. Instead, nothing but reports and paperwork beckoned. Again. The reduced stack of recommendations for disciplinary action for mages was more than made up for by the increase in templar disciplinary actions. It was almost a relief to turn over to the latest reports out of Kirkwall. At least there was a simple response to word on apostasy or maleficarum, even if there was far too much of both for comfort.

Cullen had been staring at the latest report in front of him for far too long when Corin appeared at his door. “Knight-Captain, apparently the Champion and one of her associates are looking for the Knight-Commander. They don’t seem especially eager to wait.”

His expression was one of barely-hidden discomfort. By now everyone in the Order knew that the Champion was an apostate. A man assigned as a guard and aide to a commanding officer would hardly be happy at letting an apostate wander through Templar Hall unsupervised.

“Oh? Perhaps she actually has news on the remaining apostates.” Emile de Launcet had turned himself in the previous day, more than happy to surrender without argument. Maker knew why anyone had thought he would have made a successful apostate. The other two hadn’t appeared. Not a good sign.

Corin turned his head to the corridor outside and frowned. “Please wait there, Champion. Knight-Captain Cullen is-”

Another familiar head popped around the door before stepping in full view to lean against the door frame. A long staff with an ostentatious crystal rested at her back. No more inconspicuous polearms now that she was effectively immune to the Order’s authority. No wonder Corin had looked twitchy. Cullen restrained a roll of his eyes. It was almost a relief knowing she actually was an apostate. Now he didn’t have to watch for the subtle signs, just the obvious ones. For such a brazen person, it was almost impressive how well she had kept herself hidden.

“Fancy seeing you here, Knight-Captain,” she said with a bright smile.

A shorter figure propped himself on the opposite side with a wide grin. No staff for this one. She hadn’t made the mistake of bringing Anders back to the Gallows for three years. But this visitor wasn’t much more welcome.

 _Maker, what a lovely day this is turning out to be. Varric Tethras and Hawke._ Despite the exasperation, he wasn’t quite as irritated and troubled by her arrival as he might have expected. Compared to an abomination in the Circle, a known apostate was practically harmless. He might not understand her motivations, but she was as close to trustworthy as he believed a mage could be. _Then again, I thought the same of Orsino._

“Thank you, Ser Corin, I’ll handle this.” He clasped his hands neatly in front of him and nodded a curt welcome. He didn’t exactly plan on welcoming an apostate into his office with open arms, but she was a friend of the Order. Of sorts. “Champion and Serah Tethras, no one I’d rather see,” he said sardonically. “I’m sure you know how much it meant to the Knight-Commander for you to take her side against First Enchanter Orsino.” His eyes narrowed with a touch of distrust before he could prevent it. “But surely you’re the only mage in Kirkwall who can approach the Knight-Commander directly if you wished.”

“Really? Because all the templars around here say you’re the one to speak to if I need something, not Meredith.” She looked around conspiratorially. “Everyone says the Knight-Commander’s gone crazy. But you’re still behind her?”

 _A question I have begun to ask myself._ Templars had done their best to avoid Meredith’s wrath for years now. To hear them suggest the same to an outsider was not a good sign.

Varris snorted. “Subtle, Hawke,” he muttered.

Cullen spared a scowl for Varric. “The people ask too much of her. She needs a spine of iron the survive her position.” The defence was instinctive, but it didn’t stop a more candid admission from slipping out. “I have seen madness before. The Knight-Commander … she is not there yet. But I do not need to ask where the rumours come from.”

“Not you, I assume. Unless-” she placed a hand on her heart with feigned shock. “Rebellion in the ranks?”

“Maker. I hope not.” He paused, weighing up how much to say. Hawke had supported the Order, but clearly that support wasn’t for Meredith in particular. It would be useful to have an ally, someone without ties to them. _Maker knows I_ _’m desperate if an untouchable apostate seems like a potential ally._ “After I left Ferelden, I told myself I would never again question the Order’s purpose. But it is becoming harder to judge whether I am serving the Templars, or only the Knight-Commander. It may be that they are no longer one and the same.” He met Hawke’s confused look. Maker knew why he had admitted that much, but it would serve as his own test of her faith with the Order. “As Champion, you have the influence to check us where we overstep our bounds in Kirkwall.”

“I really don’t think you should trust me with responsibility like that,” she replied with a raised eyebrow.

“I’d have to agree with her there,” Varric added.

Hawke spared Varric a haughty sniff. “I appreciate the support, Varric, as always.” A mix of concern and soberness crossing her face as she turned back to Cullen. “People are worried that there’s going to be war between the mages and the templars. Judging by the argument I saw last week, I’m not surprised they think that.” She held up a hand. “And before you say it’s all the mages’ fault, the Order isn’t exactly showering itself in glory.” She quirked a smile. “I’ve just settled in here, I’d rather not have to move again.”

“I pray it never gets that far,” Cullen replied darkly. He looked off into the middle distance, fingers drumming restlessly on his desk. If Meredith received approval for the Right of Annulment, that prayer would come unpleasantly true. Three more weeks, at most, and then they would know. But realistically, how often was the Right denied? The Divine trusted her Knights-Commander to know what was necessary in a Circle. “I fear Ser Alrik’s plan may seem a mercy compared to what is to come. If your influence can help prevent it, all the better.”

If he was so ordered, he would do his duty. But he found himself praying — to his own surprise — that the Right wouldn’t be necessary here either. Even in Ferelden, the Right had been revoked without being exercised. It had taken a long time to accept that as the correct decision, even if resentment remained for Greagoir’s hesitancy. _His cowardice,_ muttered a bitter part of himself that he quickly stifled.

She seemed to catch his meaning. Any trace of humour fled from her expression. “Ser Karras says-” she began hesitantly.

Cullen stiffened. If Karras had been talking about Meredith’s intentions, Maker knew who might have heard. There was still hope that the request might be met with a refusal. Until then, the mages of the Circle could not find out that Meredith had made the appeal, or there really would be war.

Varric nudged Hawke. “Watch yourself before you put your foot in it.” He flicked his gaze significantly back down the corridor.

“Knight-Commander Meredith herself, looking ever so cheerful.” Her expression cleared, and she gave him a cocky smile. “Now that I’m allowed in here, I’ll have to stop by again some time, Knight-Captain. Always a pleasure to see how an old friend is doing in this difficult time. We Fereldans need to stick together.”

 _Maker. Old friend?_ He thought with exasperation. _More like old headache._ He suppressed the response before poor judgement got the better of him. “Maker guide you, Hawke. And please, don’t harass Ser Corin,” he added futilely.

She disappeared back down the corridor, Varric in her wake. He shuddered to think how poorly he would come off in this tale the dwarf was supposedly writing.

**29 th Wintermarch 9:37 Dragon**

“It's not practical, Knight-Commander,” Cullen protested. Even knowing that objections or requests for clarification would be met with flat evasion, as second in command, he was the only one with any authority to protest. “I cannot place a templar at every mage's door without neglecting other aspects of our security.” _The Gallows wouldn_ _’t have been under such close guard even in its days as a Tevinter prison,_ he thought despairingly as he hurriedly catalogued their available resources.

“I want it done, Cullen. Have the men pull double shifts if need be. Pull men from Templar Hall or Gallows external security. The abomination you discovered only a matter of days ago makes it more than clear that this is necessary. Until I receive word from the Divine, we need to keep a handle on this Circle.” She leaned back in her chair. Briefly enough that Cullen wasn’t sure he had actually seen it, she looked over to where her sword rested with hungry eyes. “Three weeks, at most. Surely it isn’t too much to ask for control to be maintained for that long.”

Cullen winced. They were already pulling double shifts. Any more increases, and no one would be sleeping. Not to mention pulling men from other assignments. Many of them were assigned to those positions precisely because they weren’t suited to service in the Circle. “I’ll do my best, Knight-Commander,” he exhaled.

A fresh headache bloomed behind his eyes, chased quickly by a trickle of nausea. _Maker, not another one,_ he thought briefly. For a fraction of a second, he could swear he actually heard that non-sound, twisting through the subdued hum of lyrium in his blood.

“On to the next order of business then.” Meredith began to toy idly with a quill and her displeasure cleared as quickly as it had arrived. “Champion Hawke’s loyalty in finding the missing apostates was reassuring, but I find myself regretting the necessity for outside assistance at all. Tell me, do you believe the task would have been easier to complete with city as well as chantry authority behind you?”

“Of course. People might welcome the Guard where they turn away the Order.” His mind — reeling from the abrupt change — belatedly caught up with her question. “Why do you ask?”

“I have begun to have … concerns regarding the ability of the City Guard to adequately protect this city. Take the case of Ser Emeric. Had the Order been given leave to investigate, that tragedy might never have occurred. Or during the Qunari conflict, perhaps more lives might have been saved had the Order been operating out of the city rather than the Gallows.” Meredith pushed a small stack of letters over to him. “I have begun to receive letters from concerned citizens to a similar effect. You have seen some, and I have received others.”

Cullen leafed through the stack. There were more than a few letters, all originating from Lowtown. “It is concerning, but I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Knight-Commander.” _Or rather, I_ _’m not sure I_ want _to understand your meaning._

“In these troubled times, it may be beneficial to consolidate our authority. The Order already maintains stewardship of Kirkwall. As the most effective military force in the city, it stands to reason that we might serve as its protectors as well as its guardians.”

“With all due respect, Knight-Commander, we haven’t that right,” Cullen replied with a touch of concerned surprise. “Even if we did, our forces are fully engaged with maintaining the lockdown of the Gallows. More so if I’m to further increase security. We couldn’t spare anyone to operate a replacement for the City Guard.”

“I imagine my industrious Knight-Captain can spare time,” she replied with a faint smile. “I’m sure you agree that it would be much more efficient to bring all city authority under our control. Relieve Guard Captain Vallen of her position and we no longer need be concerned that a lack of cooperation will hamper our ability to protect this city.”

Cullen almost choked. _Spare time? That_ _’s been a foreign concept for six years._ But her request did have an odd kind of logic to it. Templars already guarded the keep, and the reluctance of the Guard to cooperate with the Order had been a source of irritation for years. “I understand your reasoning Knight-Commander.” He tapped the pile of letters. “But if I can instead resolve the recent issues with Guard Captain Vallen?” _Maker, as if I have time to do that._

She inclined her head. “By all means, I welcome you to make the attempt if you believe it possible.”

Cullen breathed an internal sigh of relief. That would be the ideal solution for more than one reason. He hardly had the time to deal with his and Meredith’s duties in the Gallows, let alone run the City Guard. Guard Captain Vallen clearly ran the City Guard well, with the exception of a rather distressing blind spot when it came to magical crime. She might not like to cooperate with the Order, and she might resent their influence, but she wasn’t a problem in his estimation. In truth though, he hadn’t the time to check the accuracy of the rumours himself. There would be not time for a gentle solution. Without a resolution to the problem, he would simply have to seize control of the Guard and hope Meredith’s authority as steward was suitable enough backing to avoid a revolt. That was not a pleasant task to contemplate.

A sudden hopefully thought crossed his mind. Hawke was a close companion of the Guard Captain. _Wisely or not, I_ _’ve already trusted her with more than one admission. Why not another?_ The city’s Champion might be able to resolve the issue without needing him to stage what would amount to a coup by the Order.

He saluted crisply. “Then I hope to have the situation resolved to your satisfaction in no more than a week.” Maker willing, he wouldn’t have to march templars into the keep by that point.

The headache lingered when he left Meredith’s office, but there wasn’t time to ease it in the fresh air outside, as much as he disliked the cramped confines of the Gallows. He settled back into the seat behind his desk and pulled a quill and fresh sheet of paper towards himself.

 

> _Champion Hawke,_
> 
> _As a courtesy for your past service, be aware that I have received complaints about your frequent companion, Guard-Captain Aveline. She is accused of coddling her men and weakening law enforcement in this crucial time. In the absence of a viscount, I am called to vacate her position and assume her authority, but I would rather not have that headache._
> 
> _Please, speak with her about these claims. As Champion, your word can decide this matter, and save the career of a good woman._
> 
> _Knight-Captain Cullen_

He scrubbed his face and sealed the letter with the twin insignias of the Templar Order and the Gallows. _Maker, I hope this resolves the matter without my needing to step in._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knowing that Meredith requested the Right of Annulment sets a short timeline for Act 3. I don’t think it would take more than a month at most for the request to get there and back. This is therefore the only act that will take place over days and weeks rather than months. I’ve also gone back to the short vignette layout for parts of Act 3 as Cullen is only around as a quest-advancing conversation for Favor and Fault until the end of the act. 
> 
> You actually can buy mage staffs in the Gallows. Makes sense from a gameplay perspective, not so much from a lore perspective, so I had to get that in somewhere.


	30. Cracks

**30th Wintermarch 9:37 Dragon**

Cullen hadn’t even realised how much he had missed dawn drills until he walked into the training yard accompanied by the sound of the dawn bell. The familiar smell of oiled metal and leather. The muted clatters of movement and murmurs of conversation echoing back from the high walls. The stifled yawns and shivers as templars settled into position. Even the deferential shuffling movements as space was made for him to stand in the front ranks. Drills were a rare moment to switch off the stream of conscious thought and planning, to simply fall into muscle memory and instinct. One week was far too long without that release.

Lovett strode up to him with a smile. “Knight-Captain. A pleasure. We haven’t seen you here for a week.”

“Far too long,” agreed Cullen with irritation. “Unfortunately, the infirmary banned me from any ‘exertion’.”

Lovett smirked in response to Cullen’s mild disgust before his expression sobered again. “I had actually intended to come find you today, as you hadn’t been around. Might we speak after the drills, Ser?”

Cullen frowned. “Of course. Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Probably not, Ser, or I would have come to you sooner,” Lovett replied with a shake of his head. “But I think it’s worth mentioning.”

“After the drills then.”

Cullen tested the wounds on his chest with a light stretch. Barely even a twinge. _Perhaps the healer was right after all_ , he allowed reluctantly. He slid into position in the neat ranks of templars. Despite the increase in the number of templars in the Gallows, the number of templars actually attending drills had reduced. Too many templars were running double shifts. At Cullen’s order, any off-duty time they had was dedicated to getting enough rest to ensure that they didn’t collapse on duty.

He pushed that niggling worry aside as they began the first set of sword forms. For a while, he was able to lose himself in the familiar routine. But it was impossible to ignore that the movements of the templars to either side of him weren’t quite as precise as they should have been. Overtired. Plenty of templars dealt with sleep difficulties already — lyrium or memories plaguing their dreams — but not everyone had the practice in handling fatigue that was granted by years of insomnia.

The same problem was obvious again when he faced off against his first opponent in practice bouts. The man’s shield drooped and he crumbled under Cullen’s answering assault.

His full concentration was hardly necessary as they paired off again. Cullen started in surprise and almost fumbled a strike as he found himself planning patrol assignments for the week that most decidedly did not correspond to Meredith’s order for a templar at every mages’ door. It felt like a small betrayal, but he didn’t drop the plans. _Perhaps it_ _’s a second in command’s duty to balance the orders of a superior against the needs of subordinates_ , he told himself. She trusted him to keep the Gallows running whilst she dealt with the keep. Ensuring the health of the templars under his command was certainly a part of that. _Not insubordination_.

Lovett paired off against him for the next round. He spun his sword idly in one hand and settled into the perfect ready stance that showed exactly why he had been chosen as training officer. “Clearly no one here is going to pose a challenge to you today, Ser.”

He smiled slightly as he watched Cullen measure him up. They exchanged a few trial blows that echoed from the walls in concert with the other templars in the courtyard. Cullen landed a harmless touch that grazed the side of Lovett’s breastplate. Lovett responded with a strike that tangled uselessly in Cullen’s robes.

But then — as Lovett slammed his shield forwards in an attempt to push Cullen off balance — his defence wavered with uncharacteristic unsteadiness. Cullen almost moved to press the advantage. Instead, he stopped short and took a step back. “Stop,” he ordered sharply.

Lovett lowered his weapons. “Ser?”

He gestured to a passage leading off the training yard and sheathed his weapons. “Join me for a moment, would you?”

When they stood in the quiet passage, out of sight of the rest of the training templars, Cullen sighed dismally. “Hold out your hands.”

Lovett’s face fell. “I’m not sure I understa-”

“Not a request. Hold out your hands, Knight-Lieutenant Lovett.”

His expression blanked out in response to the firm command, and he held his hands out, palms up. They were steady. And then, a tremor.

“How long?”

Lovett dropped his hands and clenched them into fists by his side. Whether to hide another tremor or in frustration, it was impossible to say. “A month or two. It’s barely noticeable.”

“Have you taken your draught today?”

“Two hours before dawn.” At Cullen’s questioning look, he felt the need to explain further. “I woke early.”

“Maker,” he murmured. _I know why_ I _wake so early_. That Lovett had begun to as well was not a good sign. And for Lovett to have a tremor so soon after his draught was an even worse sign. “Any memory issues?”

“Nothing like that.” Lovett scrubbed a hand over his face before drawing himself to attention. “Will I be relieved of duty, Knight-Captain?”

The distant formality in his tone was painful. They had seen each other near every day since Cullen’s arrival in Kirkwall. Even now, Cullen still made time for dawn drills. They sparred together at least once a week. But the divisions of rank in the Templar Order were rigid. In the end, Cullen was his superior officer, not his friend. That Lovett had so instinctively obeyed the command was proof of that.

“You can still serve in your current position. Your situation is better than others’.” It might be years before he faced anything worse. Those serving in more strenuous positions could deteriorate much more quickly. His voice dropped. “But you will inform me immediately if the symptoms become more severe. Ser Elyas will keep an eye on you.”

“I don’t suppose the Chantry would approve extra lyrium?” Lovett’s voice wavered slightly.

“They wouldn’t allow it,” Cullen replied with a sigh, “you know that.” Lovett wasn’t the first to ask, and he wouldn’t be the last.

“Maker,” Lovett exploded with uncharacteristic anger. “I know you get an extra lyrium allowance, Ser. Surely they’d approve the request.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you hear that?” He questioned with a hint of anger, before waving the question away. “Believe me when I say you should be grateful they didn’t see a need to recommend the same for you. The reasons for that approval were … different.” _So that the Chantry didn_ _’t have the embarrassment or_ inconvenience _of a screaming mad templar on their hands_ , he finished grimly. _It would hardly do for anyone to see that._

“I apologise, Ser, that was unfair of me,” Lovett retreated from the statement with a hand raised in apology. “I just overheard the Sisters talking about it once. It must have been pretty Maker-damned serious for the Chantry to grant approval.”

“I would appreciate it if you kept that information to yourself,” Cullen replied sharply. “There’s been quite enough rumour about my past as it is. And I’ve never used the additional ration,” he added. _Not in Kirkwall, anyway_. He met Lovett’s apologetic gaze levelly. Lovett wouldn’t appreciate sympathy or false reassurances. “A mild tremor isn’t much for now, but you know what happens.”

Lovett smiled wanly. “I’m almost forty. All things considered, I’ve done well.” He looked blindly in the direction of the recruit barracks and chuckled dryly. “I suppose the recruits won’t notice if I start forgetting some of their names. But you’ll have to relieve me before I start rampaging after phantom apostates,” he finished with a strained smile.

“I’d offer to transfer Ser Ambris back, but she wouldn’t thank either of us for it.”

Lovett’s chuckle was more cheerful this time, although the creased brow remained. “She would not. It’s a shame you don’t have the time to assist more often. The recruits appreciate the chance to train with a Knight-Captain every now and then.” He paused for a moment. “Thank you, Ser, for your understanding.”

“You deserve more than being tossed to one side.”

Lovett might not face the worst of it. The paranoia and waking nightmares weren’t likely for someone who had spent much of their service as a training officer rather than in the Circle or hunting apostates. Obsessive behaviour wasn’t always noticeable either. Certainly, none of those were exclusively signs of prolonged lyrium use, Cullen knew that rather intimately. But every one of them was destined to lose themselves in their own minds, sooner or later.

His thoughts drifted again to his fears for Meredith. She didn’t have tremors, but the other indicators? Maybe. For any other templar, obtaining enough lyrium to suppress the most obvious symptoms was next to impossible. But Knights-Commander were valuable to the Chantry where a common Knight-Templar was not. They would almost certainly be permitted access to as much lyrium as they wanted to extend their service for as long as possible. His own case had been more related to covering up an embarrassment. Most other templars weren’t worth the cost in the Chantry’s estimation.

Perhaps there was a way to find out if she had taken advantage of the allowance. _Maker forgive me, I shouldn_ _’t even be considering this,_ Cullen thought with horror. _Modifying patrols is one thing, but investigating my own Knight-Commander?_ He suppressed a shudder.

Cullen looked back out into the training yard where the dawn drills were just finishing. Little point to returning now. And so no way to drown the traitorous thoughts. “You mentioned having something you wanted to discuss.”

Lovett’s change in expression from worried to professional was crisp. “Keran.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “It’s been six years with no sign of possession. I hope I’m not about to regret the allowances I made for him and the others.”

“Nothing like that, Ser. Frankly, I’d have said there would be no problem initiating them with the next cohort. You certainly need the numbers now that recruitment has fallen so severely.”

“But?”

“Keran’s been disappearing again,” Lovett sighed as he leaned against the opposite wall and folded his arms.

Cullen’s heart dropped. “Maker preserve us. Not the same as last time? That problem should have been handled long ago.”

“It doesn’t seem to be, Andraste be praised. He’s been spending time with the full Knights-Templar. You can hardly blame him for that. He goes into Kirkwall with them sometimes.” One of those allowances Cullen hoped he wasn’t about to regret. “But he’s been absent a few times when he should have been helping with the younger recruits.”

“Who has he been spending time with?”

“Knight-Corporal Thrask. A few Knights-Templar in Thrask’s squad, and a handful of others.”

A vague memory of a rumour about Thrask returned to Cullen and he closed his eyes in exasperation. “The Blooming Rose again?” He was secretly glad to note that not even the hint of a blush touched his cheeks, although he would still rather not have a repeat of his last visit.

Lovett laughed. “I’ve put the fear of the Maker in the recruits about that place. He wouldn’t dare.” A flicker of concern crossed Lovett’s face before his brow smoothed again. “Ah yes, I even saw him talking with Bennet once.”

“Oh? What business would a recruit have with a Knight-Lieutenant?”

“The recruits pester the Circle Knights-Lieutenant for advice on how to be posted there once they’re initiated. Bennet might not be Circle, but he is assigned to Templar Hall, so I suppose that makes him the most easily accessible senior officer after me and Elyas.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m more worried about him spending time with Thrask. He’s not exactly the shining ideal I like to hold up for the recruits. Unlike our exemplary Knight-Captain. ‘Work hard and you too can be a Knight-Captain by twenty’,” he intoned before smiling wryly.

Cullen shook off the fantasy of another Knight-Captain being promoted to share his workload in the Gallows. He hadn’t had a spare moment to consider how in the Maker’s name he would deal with running the City Guard. “I appreciate the warning. Let me know if he’s absent again.”

“Of course, Ser.”

He nodded a farewell. Lovett wouldn’t need or appreciate any sympathy and further acknowledgement of his situation. “Until tomorrow.”

Lovett stood up straight and saluted. “Knight-Captain.”

 _Spending time with Thrask is probably not a good sign_ , Cullen considered as he left the training yard. Even excluding his recent concerns about Thrask’s loyalties, the man’s attitude was far too lenient. Possibly dangerously so. It wasn’t the best influence for a recruit, even one as old as Keran. Equally, he didn’t have the right to police the people with whom the men under his command chose to associate. But if Keran disappeared again, he would have to step in.

**1st Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

Cullen’s eyes skimmed guiltily past the sealed door of Meredith’s office. She wouldn’t notice his modified patrols. With so much of her focus on her position as Kirkwall’s steward, her expectation was that he would ensure that the Gallows ran smoothly during her many absences. And besides, the new assignments still kept to the letter of her order, if not the spirit. The modified patrols did pass by every mage’s door, there just wasn’t one templar at every door at all times. The logistics of that undertaking was impossible to maintain for more than a day or two. This way, templars in the Gallows would be fully functional when — _if_ — the Right of Annulment was approved.

No, the real guilt came from elsewhere. Cullen had found himself wondering — again — if Meredith had begun to suffer the effects of prolonged lyrium use. The best people to investigate were the Seekers of Truth. Calling the Seekers on his own Knight-Commander was a gross betrayal that would leave him a pariah. That left Knight-Vigilant Trentwatch. By all accounts he was an incredibly reclusive leader who only made an appearance at important events. He wouldn’t answer summons from Knights-Captain except in emergencies. Calling him unnecessarily was a significant risk.

The option he barely dared consider was to exercise his right as Knight-Captain to temporarily relieve a Knight-Commander until a higher authority could make a final determination. He shuddered at the thought. That was an option of last resort.

Perhaps it was time to consider contacting the Seekers then, as unpleasant a thought as that was. But only if she seemed to be deteriorating. Right now, all he had were the vaguest suspicions based on what seemed to be an overreaction to recent outbreaks of blood magic and rebellion in the Circle. Who was he — as a Knight-Captain with only a few years of service — to say her decisions weren’t the correct ones? _Trust your Knight-Commander? Or trust your instincts?_

A familiar face waited outside Cullen’s office, bouncing impatiently on his toes. One of the templars assigned as a not-so-subtle watch over the Warden apostate Anders. The man stopped himself short of lurching forwards as he spotted Cullen’s arrival.

“Knight-Captain! I have news.”

Cullen welcomed him into his office with a flicker of tension. Maker knew what the man would have to say. He already had more than enough concerns to fill one day. “Report.”

The templar drew himself to attention. “I have evidence that strongly suggests that the Warden Anders may be a threat. If nothing else, his intentions aren’t good.”

Cullen leaned forwards and his heart leapt in nervous anticipation. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely, Ser.” He dropped a small booklet on Cullen’s desk with a small satisfied smile. “If that’s not evidence that he’s conspired against us, I can’t think what is.”

Cullen flipped through the few leaves of cheap paper. He couldn’t restrain a triumphant smile. Whilst the venomous anti-Templar and anti-Chantry sentiment was chilling, even his status as a Warden couldn’t be an adequate shield now.

He turned the smile on the waiting templar. “Excellent work, this should be more than enough to condemn him. Maintain the watch. I want an immediate report if he makes any suspicious movements.”

The man saluted and left with an answering grin. “Thank you, Knight-Captain. As ordered.”

Cullen penned as detailed a report as he could manage. Locations, suspicions, and now, finally, the best proof they’d get short of actually finding the mage standing over a dead body, staff in hand. Meredith’s approval ought to be quick once she had a chance to review the case. Soon enough he might actually be able to remove a weight on his mind instead of adding another.

A few hours of relative peace were broken as a familiar face appeared at his door, barely seconds after Corin had announced her. Calmly, he slid the pamphlet under a pile of reports. Perhaps she knew of her some-time associate’s convictions, and perhaps not. Better to avoid any risk.

“Champion, I hope my letter found you well?” He welcomed her with a brief smile. “Hopefully you have been able to address the accusations against the Guard Captain. I don’t have time for gentle solutions.”

Another figure in the worn but well-maintained plate of the City Guard appeared in his doorway. “Ah,” he exhaled. _This will be a pleasant conversation_. “And you are with the Guard Captain. None too happy about the accusations against her, I’m sure.”

The Guard Captain looked distinctly annoyed as she crossed her arms. She seemed to be sizing him up as she met his even gaze with an irritable one of her own. “You could say that.”

A dramatic grimace played across Hawke’s face. “I have successfully wasted my time, and there is no merit to the claims.”

“As I suspected,” he sighed in response.

“Then why press this?” If anything, the guard captain looked more irritated than before.

“Some believe that the solution to the current crisis of leadership is to … consolidate authority. So long as these complaints continue — baseless or not — they will serve as justification for eliminating the position of Guard Captain.” He massaged his forehead. “It would be the simplest fix, whether or not I agree,” he finished wearily.

A smirk crossed Hawke’s face. “Just point me in the right direction and I’ll get you some peace and quiet.”

Cullen’s hand came to rest on the pile of complaints. “I have no answer for you other than to say that all of the complaints have come from Lowtown.”

The Guard Captain broke away from her glare to glance at Hawke and then back to Cullen. Irritation was replaced with confusion. “Guardsman Brennan is on that patrol. Why wouldn’t _she_ tell me of this?”

“I don’t know,” Cullen responded helplessly. “But I do apologise for the assumptions of this incident, Guard Captain. It has been … unfortunate.” _Maker. An understatement if there ever has been one._

The Guard Captain grabbed Hawke by the arm and pulled her out of the office. “It’s not done.”

Cullen breathed a gentle sigh of relief as they disappeared. The source of the rumours wasn’t his concern, as long as he could report to Meredith that they were nothing but slander. _Thank the Maker._ That was one concern that seemed to have been handled. If he’d been sleeping normally the past few days, worry about how to run both the Gallows and the City Guard would have been more than enough to keep him up at night.

His relief dimmed as he pulled the pamphlet back out from under the pile of reports. Hawke had proven herself trustworthy in her dealings with the Order. But did she know about her associate’s convictions? And did she agree?

**4th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

“Enough!” The whip crack of Cullen’s sharp outburst silenced the pair of bickering mages and sent the templars into stiff poses of attention. “I expect you all to conduct yourselves properly.”

“Ser-” began one templar.

“Quiet.”

He rolled his shoulders. At this point he was rather glad not to have his weapons to hand. The temptation to draw a blade was stronger than he would have liked.

Two mages, hands restrained behind their backs and an emerging bruise on one’s cheekbone. Three Knights-Templar, trying and failing to look apologetic. It painted a rather baffling picture. From what little he could gather from each source, the two groups had been caught having a fight in the corridors. And not the kind of fight that might be explained as templars apprehending hostile mages. That would have been a perfectly clear-cut situation.

Cullen exhaled and turned to the Knight-Corporal beside him. “Can you provide a little clarity to this situation?”

“Ser,” he acknowledged. “I was completing my patrol on the sixth floor when I came across this group engaged in what looked an awful lot like a casual conversation. I know perfectly well what it looks like when a templar apprehends a mage — aggressive or compliant. Whatever they were doing, I can say with absolute certainty that it wasn’t that. The conversation turned into a heated argument as I approached. I arrived just in time to stop them before it broke out into a fight.”

Cullen felt brief relief. When he’d been called to resolve the aftermath of a fight, he’d expected to be dealing with injured mages. The relief faded as quickly as it had arrived. This was altogether stranger.

He glared at one of the stiff templars beside the mages, “Repeat to me — clearly this time — your account of events.”

A quick scowl at one of the mages snapped the man’s mouth closed before he could speak again.

“Knight-Captain. We were on our assigned patrol through corridors five, six, and seven on the sixth floor. Whilst on our patrol, we spotted Mages Bryce and Orsellis breaking curfew. We moved to detain them. We … handled the situation badly?” The report was delivered with crisp military precision, right until he wavered on the final statement.

The Knight-Corporal chuckled. “I’ve heard that excuse before, Ser. More likely, the mages had some contraband they intended to trade. An argument broke out when these men decided to claim the contraband for themselves instead.”

Cullen scowled at him for the interruption. “That will be all, Knight-Corporal.” He turned back to the rigid Knights-Templar. “Well?”

“None of us would ever agree to trade in contraband, Ser.” No hesitation or uncertainty there.

“But you would steal it?”

“Of course not, Knight-Captain!” He replied indignantly. “There was no contraband.”

“The procedure for finding a mage breaking curfew is quite clear.” He left an opening for the templar to provide a response.

“Yes, Ser.” The man closed his eyes. “Restrain the suspect. Escort them back to their quarters. Summon a superior officer.”

“Congratulations, it seems you paid some attention after all,” Cullen replied bitingly. “Unless I’m much mistaken, holding casual conversation and then breaking out into a fight isn’t included in the procedures.”

“No, Ser,” the templar replied faintly.

“And you realise that fraternising with mages, let alone ones caught breaking curfew, is forbidden during the lockdown?”

“It wasn’t fraternisation, Ser. It was…” he trailed off

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Then you simply failed to apprehend them. That’s hardly better.”

“They are not men under your command, Knight-Corporal,” Cullen stated, with a glance towards the man by his side.

“No, Ser. My own men would do a better job of seizing and detaining hostile mages. These three are on secondment from Templar Hall.”

For some reason, that rang a minor alarm bell in Cullen’s mind. He set the thought aside for when he had a spare moment.

“I would hope so.” He pointed to the livid bruise that coloured the mage’s face in spreading purple. “Any templar assigned to the Circle has more than enough training to restrain a mage without causing any physical harm. I needn’t remind you that any form of assault on our charges will be punished.”

The trio cleared their throats uncomfortably. Cullen caught the veiled glances they gave to the Knight-Corporal by his side.

“Knight-Corporal,” Cullen began suspiciously. “Care to explain?”

The man paled, caught in his own lie. “No excuse, Ser. I misinterpreted the situation and subdued the mages with a little more force than necessary.”

Cullen massaged his brow. “This keeps getting better.” He turned to the mages, “That you broke curfew is obvious. But have you anything to say?”

Orsellis raised a hand. “I freely admit we were out of our quarters.” He folded his arms defensively. “But we had no contraband, and there was no fight.” He cast an unreadable glance over the three templars. “There’s no reason to penalise them.”

Cullen exhaled his irritation. Now not only did he have this baffling situation to handle, he also had mages advocating for the templars who had caught them breaking curfew. “All of you. Expect full questioning once you've had chance to calm down a little. Knights-Templar Kastrol, Greer, Fennes. Two week’s suspension without pay. During that time, you will rejoin the recruits to refresh yourselves on the appropriate procedure to apprehend a mage.” They saluted, not at all surprised by the sentence. “Knight-Corporal Mannas, I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume the injury was not intentional. But you will also join those lessons.” A few angry spots of colour marked the man’s cheeks, but he saluted crisply. “Mages Bryce and Orsellis. One month’s confinement in the holding cells.”

“No!” Blurted a templar before blushing bright red. One of his fellows hissed an oath and covered his eyes with a hand.

Cullen blinked, more shocked than angry. Now both groups were advocating for each other. “Excuse me? No?”

“I-I’m sorry, Ser. I misspoke.”

“Please, do explain why you think the sentence should be withdrawn,” he ordered sardonically. “After all, I’m only a Knight-Captain.”

The templar cleared his throat uncomfortably. “If anyone is at fault, it’s us, not the mages.”

“Are you saying these mages shouldn’t be punished at all for breaking curfew, Knight-Templar Kastrol?” Cullen questioned incredulously.

“Not quite, Ser,” the templar replied weakly, with the look of a man building his own pyre, “But we failed to follow proper procedure. Any punishment is ours to bear.”

“Maker preserve me, I have no idea what to make of this whole situation,” Cullen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The sentence stands. Your failures don’t cancel out their  crime, as much as you seem to want that to be the case. I will add a further week's training with the recruits to your sentence. Perhaps that might clear up your confusion of a templar's role in the Circle.” He gave the templars a final baffled look. “And as you’re so concerned, the mages won’t face Tranquility for something as simple as breaking curfew.”

“I have your word, Ser?” The oath from his fellow was accompanied by a less than subtle elbow to the side this time.

“You have my word,” Cullen replied bemusedly.

~~~~

It turned out Cullen wasn’t the only one to experience headaches in Meredith’s office. He’d overheard more than one conversation between templars wondering at the fact that they’d all experienced the same. The older templars had even claimed to hear something, at the very edge of perception. Only a day ago, he’d spotted one templar trying and failing to hold onto the contents of his stomach as he stumbled from Meredith’s office to the private courtyard off the commanding officer’s corridor. Facing Meredith at the height of her rage might be a terrifying prospect for a recently initiated Knight-Templar, but the reaction was far too severe, even for that. He’d accompanied the man to the infirmary, but the healers had been as bemused as he was. If this continued, he’d have no choice but to summon a mage to check for magical interference. It might not be blood magic, but there was no denying that something was off.

And yet Meredith still seemed completely immune. She tented her fingers and gazed off into the distance. “More blood mages, no doubt,” she mused once Cullen had finished his summary.

“There was no indication that the two mages were blood magic practitioners, Knight-Commander,” Cullen offered tentatively. Naturally, it was the first thing they checked these days. He closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled. There was no denying the paranoia in her statement. _Maker preserve me, I don_ _’t want to be thinking this._

As if she recognised his thought, her gaze sharpened. “I know what people have begun to say,” she snapped. “Put forth a valid concern and they claim paranoia. Demand answers and they claim I am being unreasonable.” Her eyes drifted in the direction of Orsino’s office again. Easy to guess who ‘they’ meant. “There is a problem here that must be handled.”

Cullen cocked his head in confusion, unsure what she meant. “What problem are you referring to, Knight-Commander? I’d be happy to-”

“No,” she cut him off, “I will deal with this.”

Cullen felt a sharp surge of betrayal at her dismissive response. “Yes, Knight-Commander,” he responded curtly. Behind his back, his gauntlets creaked as he clenched his fists.

Her eyes narrowed in unspoken disapproval. “Thank you, Knight-Captain. Dismissed.”

He saluted and stalked out of her office. Blind loyalty was already more than he was willing to give. Now she demanded outright blindness, something he’d sworn to correct. If Meredith believed there was a threat to the Gallows, he needed to know. He could hardly keep the Circle secure otherwise.

**5th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

Orsino’s glare as Cullen stepped into the meeting room could have bored through a few feet of solid stone. His fingers drummed an impatient beat on the table in front of him. “It seems my prediction came to pass earlier than expected. Has Meredith finally decided that she hasn’t the time for _any_ of her duties?”

Cullen spared a short glance for Orsino as he sat down. “She’s otherwise engaged. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for me.”

In truth, she hadn’t seen the point. Why bother discussing apprentices approaching their Harrowing when you believed the Circle would be annulled? Cancelling upcoming Harrowings as good as shouted that there was something more serious going on than another security risk. And so Cullen attended the meeting in her place, whether or not Meredith cared or noticed.

“Otherwise engaged seeing blood mages where there are none.” Orsino caught something that Cullen thought he had hidden better. His eyes narrowed. “You’re not happy about it,” he stated disbelievingly.

Cullen met Orsino’s gaze for a longer moment. That seemed to be enough for the mage. A small smile crossed his face and for a moment his shoulders lifted, as if he wasn’t carrying the entire weight of the Gallows on them.

“Things could be better in the Gallows,” Cullen acknowledged reluctantly. “But she’s not wrong about the blood mages.”

“Not every mage is a blood mage.”

Cullen opened a hand. “So you often say. And yet Kirkwall and the Gallows seems to have rather a lot of them.”

“According to Meredith,” Orsino said with disgust, “I lead every single blood mage in Kirkwall. I suppose you’re happy to follow that opinion.”

Cullen chuckled. “I highly doubt she believes that.” A cold chill ran up his spine before he’d even finished speaking. _Maker. She just might._

Startled surprise replaced the anger in Orsino’s gaze. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Cullen replied with irritation.

Orsino leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “This is only the latest in a long string of ridiculous accusations. She has claimed I lead a conspiracy to overthrow the Circle. That I have encouraged blood magic”

Cullen blinked, barely managing to prevent himself from jerking forwards. “Is it true?” He asked, to cover his surprise and sudden dread that turned his blood to ice.

Orsino’s expression closed abruptly. “We have other things to discuss,” he snapped.

The remainder of the meeting passed with chilly formality as both Orsino and Cullen attempted to complete their discussions with the minimum possible interaction. Orsino left without anything more than the most cursory farewell.

Cullen stayed a while longer, lost in thought. Cold fingers of betrayal and fear wormed a little further into his mind. A conspiracy of blood mages sounded like Kinloch Hold all over again. To claim the First Enchanter himself led the conspiracy was enough to send a shudder through him. But a touch of doubt tempered the fear. Conflicting instincts warred with each other. _Never trust a mage,_ whispered a small voice from amongst the memories in the dark corners of his mind. He forcefully shoved the old voice of paranoia to one side. Logic, not fear ought to dictate his actions.

He had no idea what to believe any more. Old instincts or new. A Knight-Commander who no longer trusted him. A First Enchanter who encouraged rebellion against the Order. There was far too little truth in the Gallows.

For all his vitriol, for all the rebellion he encouraged, there was no evidence to suggest Orsino was a blood mage. And if there had been evidence, if Meredith truly believed there was a credible threat to the Circle, she would have told him, of all people. _Wouldn_ _’t she?_ Perhaps a recognition of her own paranoia held her back from discussing her suspicions. It seemed a poor excuse for refusing to trust her own second in command.

The feeling of betrayal wormed even deeper, overriding the fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of Act 3 is only a few chapters away now. This was really a bit of a filler chapter to establish a final few background points and so that Hawke can catch up to where things start getting really interesting.


	31. Fracture

**8 th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

The morning started with much the same routine as the previous few. Wake up before dawn in a cold sweat, memories of Kinloch Hold playing behind his eyes. Remind himself forcefully that a blood mage conspiracy was probably an overly cautious suspicion resulting from recent outbreaks of blood magic and possession in the Circle. Probably. And if not, two hundred templars patrolling the Circle at any one time ought to be enough to handle anything short of a full-fledged war. Hopefully.

Then agonise over whether it was insubordination to harbour resentment for his Knight-Commander and suspicions on her state of mind. Briefly consider whether he ought to be writing to the Seekers of Truth or begging forgiveness for being anything less than entirely loyal. Meanwhile, prepare a draught of lyrium, the blue glow spilling across his hands. Drain it equally routinely and savour the metallic burn as the lyrium slid down his throat and filled his veins with its cold fire. A brief stop in the chantry. Dawn drills.

Lovett waited for him in the dim corridor that led into the training yard with folded arms and a frown creasing his brow. A sharp gust of wind cut right through the narrow passageway, whipping their robes about their legs and reminding them both that winter hadn’t quite released its hold on Kirkwall yet.

Cullen stopped short of entering the courtyard and nodded an acknowledgement of Lovett’s cursory salute. “Let me guess,” he said with a sigh. “Keran has gone missing again.”

“I’m afraid so, Ser,” Lovett replied. His expression flickered between concern for one of his charges and exasperation. “The other perennial recruits say they last saw him just before yesterday’s evening meal. He’s not in the Gallows, and I’ve already checked with the templars assigned to docks security. He left last night and hasn’t returned.”

“I’ll need to track him down then.” Cullen supposed he ought to be worried, but he was more irritated than anything else. “It seems I’ll have to skip today’s drills. Send him to me immediately if he reappears.”

“Will do, Ser.” A brief smirk replaced the concerned frown. “They’ll appreciate the reprieve in today’s drills.”

“Maker. I’d much rather be there,” Cullen muttered in response as he turned on a heel and strode away.

He growled out his irritation as he stalked through the corridors, startling a passing templar out of his salute. Maker knew what Keran was doing. If this was desertion, he could be hard to find. Keran could go where he wanted, when he wanted, for as long as he wanted, unlike the occasional initiated templar deserter, bound by the call of lyrium. He certainly wasn’t going to be peeled off the streets of Kirkwall in the throes of withdrawal in a few days time.

He caught Knight-Lieutenant Conrad as the man left his quarters. A short discussion confirmed that a single squad could be spared to search Kirkwall. The Hanged Man seemed likely. Every now and then he was called to haul templars back to the Gallows from the infamous tavern. The Blooming Rose was next on his list. Even with Meredith’s ban, it was inevitable that some templars would still visit the place, and Keran already had an unfortunate history there. He listed a few other known templar haunts in Kirkwall. As an afterthought, he added Keran’s sister’s home. It was always possible that Keran had simply gone to visit his sister and lost track of time. An unsanctioned absence to visit family might not be permissible, but it would be a relief if that was the case.

Conrad saluted and acknowledged the orders. Privately, Cullen held little hope that one squad could find a lone deserter in a city with tens of thousands of people. But sitting and waiting wasn’t an option.

His next stop was the Gallows’ main courtyard. Lovett might have checked with Keran’s friends, but he had said that Keran spent time around Thrask and his squad. There was always a chance that they’d seen him. 

By the time he arrived, the main portcullis was just easing open in preparation for the day ahead. A few merchants trickled in, displaying their permits to the bored templars at the entrance. The muted procession took place under the watchful gaze of a Knight-Corporal leaning against one of the columns lining the courtyard. The sun might still be too low to properly illuminate anything more than the very peak of the Gallows, but unless Thrask had suddenly become female, the sole Knight-Corporal in the courtyard was certainly not him.

Cullen’s eyes narrowed as he strode up to her. “Knight-Corporal.”

Her eyes flickered about, trying to work out if she’d done anything to make her the source of Cullen’s anger. “Knight-Captain,” she responded tentatively. “Do you need me?”

“I do believe this should be Ser Thrask’s posting for the week.”

“Ah. Yes, Ser. Thrask needed to handle an emergency. I offered to have my squad cover his assignment for him.”

“With Knight-Lieutenant Parrist’s approval, I hope.”

“Um.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “I won’t make you lie for him. Where is Thrask now?”

“I don’t know, Ser. He didn’t say what the emergency was. I just know he left the Gallows some time yesterday morning,” she offered.

“So he’s been missing an entire day. Even better,” he snapped. “Would his squad know?”

She hesitated again. “ Possibly, Ser?”

Cullen exhaled. “They’re not here either, are they? Maker’s breath.”

She stopped just short of wringing her hands. “I apologise, Ser. If I’d known…”

“You’d still have helped a fellow Knight-Corporal. That will be all.”

She saluted and turned back to the trickle of merchants setting up stalls with a final, guilt-stricken glance behind her.

Cullen paced slowly back out of the Gallows’ public areas towards the privacy of Templar Hall. He regretted now that Knight-Lieutenant Conrad had already left in search of Keran. No absences had been authorised for weeks. That Thrask and some of his men were missing was effectively a mass desertion, whatever the excuse.

He turned to the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps behind him. The Knight-Corporal from the courtyard jogged up to him, a messenger from the City Guard in tow.

“Messenger for you or the Knight-Commander, Ser.”

Judging by the man’s face, the news was not going to be good. Barely an hour past dawn and this was shaping up to be another terrible day. Cullen raised a hand in invitation. “Please, deliver your bad news.”

“Guard Captain Vallen delivers her apologies she couldn’t deliver the news in person,” he began crisply. “We found two templars and two Circle mages dead in Hightown this morning, only a few streets away from the chantry.”

Cullen blinked for a moment, stunned. A host of emotions warred for dominance. Anger, confusion, despair, fear. “I need more detail. Did they kill each other? Do you have descriptions?”

There hadn’t been any Circle escapees reported since the lockdown. Any long term apostate would have long since discarded anything that marked them as a Circle mage. And two templars would never have been sent to handle a pair of apostates alone. Had this been Thrask’s emergency?

The messenger extracted a piece of paper from a pocket. “Guard Captain Vallen ruled the deaths to have been due to one of the new gangs in Hightown.” He flicked a neutral glance at Cullen. “There has been some recent anti-Circle sentiment since the argument between Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino. Signs of some kind of magical battle, but not between the templars and the Circle mages. Judging by the armour, one of the dead was a Templar Knight-Lieutenant. Fifties. White hair and beard.”

“Knight-Lieutenant Bennet?” Cullen exclaimed before he could stop himself. There weren’t many Knights-Lieutenant, and any actively serving templar old enough to gain white hair automatically stood out. “And the others?”

The messenger handed over the report. “The bodies are on their way to the Gallows.”

“Thank you,” Cullen responded absently as he skimmed the report. “Knight-Corporal, escort him back to the docks if you would.”

To his shame, the description of the dead Knight-Templar didn’t bring to mind a name. There were too many templars in the Gallows for him to know them all from such cursory descriptions. Neither of the Circle mages’ descriptions were familiar either, but that simply meant they hadn’t been rebellious enough to draw high-level templar attention.

He leaned against a wall, lost in thought. “What in the Maker’s name was he doing out there with Circle mages of all things?” he muttered to himself as he lowered the report and stared up at the Gallows, towering into the pale blue sky.

A hollow opened in the pit of his stomach as disparate pieces slotted together. A missing Knight-Corporal with disciplines on record for fraternisation with mages. Templar conspirators assisting in the destruction of phylacteries. A Templar Knight-Lieutenant found with Circle mages in Kirkwall. Knights-Templar under that same Knight-Lieutenant’s command found in a baffling situation with Circle mages who had broken curfew. Suddenly a conspiracy seemed less like paranoia and more like fact.

He shook his head. Thrask was misguided but loyal. Or so he had thought. Bennet had never stood out as anything other than hard-working, in all the years he had known the man. A handful of misguided Knights-Templar was one thing. But he had never suspected Templar officers might take part in a conspiracy.

He pushed himself off the wall, the report from the Guard half-forgotten in his hand. Perhaps now was a good point to make the time to question Knights-Templar Greer, Fennes, and Kastrol.

The trio of templars sat rather sullenly at a table in the barracks, playing cards until they were scheduled to join the recruits in their lessons. All three were experienced templars, many years distant from their own initiations. The sentence definitely chafed at them.

They tossed their cards down and snapped to attention as he approached their card table. Cullen held back a smirk as he ran a vaguely disapproving look over the piles of coin. Apparently Greer concealed things as poorly in Wicked Grace as he did life. The man’s pile of coins was minuscule compared to his companions. It was an easy choice of who to question first. He pulled Greer away from his fellows.

“Mages Bryce and Orsellis,” he began sharply. “Friends of yours, I assume, Ser Greer.”

The templar did his best to keep his face impassive. “No, Ser. We’re discouraged from fraternising with mages.”

“Hmm. And yet you were fraternising.” Cullen folded his arms. “Knight-Lieutenant Bennet was found dead in Kirkwall earlier today, in the company of two Circle mages. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

“He what?” The templar blurted out. “Who? That wasn’t supposed-”

“Please, continue,” Cullen snapped as Greer cut himself off. “What _was_ supposed to happen?”

“I mean he wasn’t supposed to be there. The Gallows is still in lockdown, Ser,” the templar finished weakly.

“How well do you know Knight-Corporal Thrask?”

“Ah, pardon?” The templar looked worried. “I’ve gone drinking with him every now and then, Ser,” he offered guardedly.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about, say, templars colluding with mages to undermine the security of this Circle?”

“It’s not-” the templar cut himself off and cursed under his breath. “Maybe Kastrol or Fennes can answer your questions better, Ser.”

“Oh, I think this is going quite well for you, Knight-Templar Greer,” Cullen replied sarcastically. “Concealing vital information from a superior officer could see you expelled from the Order, let alone collusion. So. Would you care to finish your thought?”

“I can’t, Ser,” he pleaded. “The Knight-Commander will have us all executed.”

“I’ll see it doesn’t happen,” Cullen replied with exasperation.

Greer shook his head helplessly. “Really? I knew the templars accused of tampering with the phylactery chamber.” His voice lowered to a whisper “I don’t want to end up like them, Ser.”

“That was … an extraordinary set of circumstances,” Cullen replied sourly. “Execution is not the Order’s way.”

“Right.” Greer hauled in a fortifying breath and clasped his hands behind his back. “There are some of us who are dissatisfied with the direction things are going here, Ser. It was Ser Thrask’s idea to start showing us that Knight-Commander Meredith’s way isn’t the way things have to be.”

“Knight-Commander Meredith is the commanding officer of the Order in Kirkwall, not Knight-Corporal Thrask.” Cullen rebuked him sharply. 

“No other Circle operates like the Gallows does, and nothing in the Chant demands that mages be treated like criminals, Ser,” Greer responded defensively. “Ser Thrask wanted to show us that mages and templars aren’t enemies. That we can work together.”

“Mages are not our enemies,” Cullen agreed, his voice hardening, “but neither are they our friends. Our duty is to stand prepared to defend against the dangers of magic. Friendship blinds you to danger.”

“That can’t be true, Ser,” Greer protested loudly. “I didn’t join the Order to be a jailer.” He closed his eyes, prepared for the reprimand he had to know would result.

“Oh?” Cullen responded acidly. “Over half the mages your ‘friends’ assisted in escaping the Gallows were blood mages. A little more vigilance rather than friendship, and deaths could have been prevented.”

Kastrol and Fennes had caught Greer’s elevated tone. They exchanged wary glances. One of the pair eased himself out of his chair and slipped closer to the conversation. “Clearly, Greer can’t keep his mouth shut. But if I may, Ser, this has been a source of friction amongst those who follow Ser Thrask too.”

Cullen frowned at the man. “Is that what led to the argument a few days ago, Ser Kastrol?”

He nodded. “Most of us started following Ser Thrask because we just want life to go back to normal. But there have been some recent, ah, differences of opinion on what ‘normal’ actually means.” He ignored Greer’s pleading glance. “It shouldn’t be a surprise to hear that the libertarians are a little over-represented.”

“You’re talking about encouraging outright rebellion,” Cullen snapped angrily.

“No, Ser,” he protested hastily. “Most of us still believe in a Circle system. We’re still loyal to the Order, we just take issue with the current direction.”

“Justified or not, there is a proper way to register concerns. This is astoundingly far from that.”

“What else could we do, Ser?” Greer overrode whatever Kastrol had meant to say.

“Maker,” Cullen replied irritably. “There is a chain of command. You could have spoken to me.”

“All due respect, Ser, _you_ might have listened, but I know what happens to people who challenge the Knight-Commander. There was no going back for any of us.”

“So you decided that supporting mutiny was your only option. Maker give me strength.” But they weren’t wrong, he acknowledged. There would have been no mercy. He felt a moment of disquiet at the thought that his own worry about the direction they were taking wasn’t that far removed from theirs. “Where is Ser Thrask now?”

Kastrol shook his head. “I don’t know, Ser. All three of us have been keeping a low profile for the past few days.”

He bit back a curse. “Consider your suspension to be extended indefinitely until this matter has been resolved. Don’t do anything to make the situation worse for yourselves than you already have. Dismissed.”

After all that had been revealed, he was face with another dead end. His only lead now was a vain hope that Keran might know something, and that he hadn’t simply got lost on his way back to the Gallows. Relief that there was no blood mage conspiracy in the Circle was quickly replaced with anger. The case had transitioned impossibly quickly from one absent recruit to an actual schism within the Order. And worse, one that seemed to have undermined security in the Circle. _How did it get this bad?_ This had shot up to a matter of the utmost urgency.

Another traitorous thought wormed into his mind. Meredith knew something was wrong, and she had hidden it from him.

Pacing wasn’t a habit that Cullen indulged in much. When he felt the need to move, he checked on the Circle, or on templars assigned around the Gallows. Something to burn off restlessness in a more useful way. But he found himself pacing from one end of his cramped office to the other, one eye on the report in his hand, the other on his open door. 

After an agonising wait, Conrad appeared at his doorway, a cold smile on his face. “Recruit Keran, tracked down as ordered, Ser. Sensible suggestion to check his sister’s home. He’d hidden himself there.”

With a gesture, he beckoned a pair of templars forward. Each had a hand clamped about Keran’s arm. Keran stumbled into view, still clad in the light armour assigned to advanced recruits. His gaze was fixed firmly on the floor, as if the worn sandstone he had seen every day was suddenly the most fascinating thing in Kirkwall.

Cullen exhaled and dropped a half-read report back on his desk. “Excellent work, Ser Conrad. I’ll handle him. I apologise for diverting you from your assigned tasks.”

Conrad saluted casually. He was a harsh man at the best of times, but the look he spared for Keran was particularly glacial. “Always a pleasure to track down deserters, Ser. Luckily, Keran knew better than to resist.”

With quickly barked orders to his men, he marched back out of view, leaving Keran alone to face Cullen’s angry displeasure. Cullen leaned against his desk and folded his arms.

“Maker’s breath, Keran,” he snapped. “One lot of trouble wasn’t enough for you?”

“No, I mean, yes, Ser. I didn’t mean…” he tapered off, a red blush colouring his cheeks.

“I’m aware that ten years is a long time to wait for your knighthood, but Knight-Lieutenant Lovett meant to recommend you all for this year’s initiation. Now, I’m not sure I’ll grant permission.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right now, you’re the least of my concerns. I have one simple question for you: where can I find Knight-Corporal Thrask?”

Keran dared to look up, a mixture of hope and distress on his face. “You don’t want to know anything?”

“I can guess the outline. I have a feeling I don’t have time for the details.”

He ducked his head again. “The Wounded Coast, maybe an hour or two east of Kirkwall, near where the Qunari dreadnought was beached.”

“He’s not even in Kirkwall?” Cullen questioned in disbelief. “Maker. Give me the short version of whatever excuses you meant to make.”

Keran’s might not have been an initiated templar, and he might have been cowed by his situation, but Lovett trained his recruits well. The report that Keran delivered was crisp and concise. The weight on Cullen’s shoulders pressed a little harder. The story only confirmed what Kastrol and Greer had told him. Thrask was the ringleader for a templar rebellion in the Gallows that had undermined every effort they had made to keep the Circle secure. Encouraging fraternisation was a relatively minor crime. Enabling mages to secretly enter and leave the Circle without permission was enough to see him expelled by even the most permissive Knight-Commander, especially given the sheer volume of blood magic incidents in the city. He shuddered slightly. For all they knew, Circle mages could well have been behind some of those incidents.

There were some obvious glaring gaps in Keran’s story. There had been no reason behind him fleeing the docks warehouse where the conspirators had met, no reason for the change in heart, no explanation of what they were even doing outside Kirkwall, and no hints of the worries that had diven Kastrol’s confessions. Keran’s explanation held all the idealism that Cullen had once held. But he was hiding something. Perhaps his own involvement, perhaps covering for another.

“You’re hiding something,” Cullen stated. He held up a hand to cut off Keran’s protest. “Report to Knight-Lieutenant Lovett. You’re restricted to the Gallows — again — until I have time to deal with you properly. I expect a very convincing excuse prepared as to why you should be kept on with the Order this time.”

Cullen paused before rushing out in pursuit of Thrask and his co-conspirators. There was no avoiding the fact that he was working behind Meredith’s back in investigating rebellion of this scale without her express sanction. That hesitation lasted only a second. Meredith was at the keep, and this was far to urgent to wait for approval, or worse, to have that approval denied.

Now simply needed templars he knew could be relied upon, without a hidden agenda of their own. Maker knew how many had secretly been suborned by Thrask. And there was no denying that there were templars in the Gallows given leave to skip the chain of command and report directly to Meredith. He regretted now having turned a blind eye to that distortion of the military hierarchy — too loyal to question it — but he still knew who he could trust. He shied away from the thought that he might be on a slippery slope to rebellion of his own.

With a nod to himself to reinforce his decision, he swept out of his office.

~~~~

Despite the damp chill of a Kirkwall winter, the city had become stiflingly oppressive in the past years. Cullen hadn’t realised it until he led his trusted templars out of the city gates and onto the rough paved roads that fanned out of the city. He’d been stuck in Kirkwall far too long. It was easy to recognise that as soon as an undefined weight lifted off his shoulders at the sight of unbroken sky in every direction. The towering multi-storey buildings of Kirkwall and the windowless confines of the Gallows had a way of closing in on him, to the point where it didn’t make a difference that Kirkwall stone was rough and sandy where Kinloch Hold had been smooth grey granite.

Now, there was nothing but patchy scrubland illuminated by wan sunshine and, far off in the distance, the jet slopes of the Vimmarks. Even emerging from the depths of winter, those jagged peaks were covered by only a few stretches of snow that stood out against the dark stone of the mountains. Nothing like the verdant hills and snow-bound winters of Ferelden, but infinitely better than the stone walls and tight corridors that had characterised the years of his life ever since he had become a templar recruit.

The scrubland transitioned quickly into the treacherous cliffs and secluded beaches that made up the Wounded Coast. Half-rotted shipwrecks jutting out of the water made it clear just why the region had earned its name. The other source of the region’s name didn’t dare make itself known. The bandits that plagued the stretch of coastline and took advantage of wrecked ships were nowhere to be seen. Whether it was prudence or the last remnants of pious guilt, they chose to avoid antagonising even a small column of templars.

They crested a small sandy rise that provided a commanding view over the deceptively still sea below them. Jagged outcroppings of stone jutted out of the waters, testament to the equally lethal spines that lay just beneath the surface, ready to tear a hole in anything ship that dared stray too close.

Even the coastline stretching ahead of them looked equally unwelcoming. A handful of crabbed trees with salt-stained trunks crouched in the sandy soil. It was impossible to tell whether the branches were winter bare, or whether the unfriendly environment had been too much to support them.

Cullen squinted out to where the rough pathway continued onward, snaking between sharp cliffs on one side and a steep drop into the waters below. The weak sunshine caught on the glitter of metal. Not a person in full templar plate, but a lone armed man.

He called forwards a scout loaned by Forthrin and pointed out the solitary figure. “A lookout for one of the bandit groups in the region, or just an innocent traveller?”

The scout stepped up next to Cullen, reflexively clutching at his longbow. He too squinted against the sunlight and grunted. “Not a bandit, Ser. But whoever he is, he’s moving damned quickly for a traveller.”

“Perhaps he’s seen our missing templars then.”

He marched his small column down the far side of the sandy rise to intercept the figure. His eyebrows rose in surprise as the person came into clear view. It had been six years since he’d last seen the man, but he could still recall the features led with crystalline clarity. He’d seen them every day whilst they shared quarters.

“Maker’s breath,” he breathed in an undertone. As they came within hearing range, he called out. “Samson?”

Samson’s progress had slowed as he spotted the small templar force. His expression fluctuated between wariness and surprise as his quick stride settled into a cautious stroll. He settled on pleasure as he recognised Cullen and a handful of other faces. The pleasure wavered slightly as Cullen motioned the templars with him to enclose Samson in a ring of steel whilst he himself faced Samson with folded arms.

“You would not believe how pleased I am to see you, Ser Cullen,” he replied. “You’ve saved me quite the trek.”

Cullen assessed Samson quickly with a practised eye and sinking stomach. The man looked half dead. Hollow eyes, sallow skin, blown-out pupils, receding hair and visibly trembling hands. When he had been ejected from the Order six years ago, he had looked as healthy as any other templar in the Gallows. Now you didn’t need any experience to spot the signs of someone deeply addicted to lyrium. Even his voice sounded rougher, as if poor-quality lyrium or lyrium dust had permanently seared his vocal chords. At this point, most templars would barely have been able to stand, let alone function properly.

"Samson, you're looking..." well would not have been accurate. Cullen wasn’t entirely sure what the right greeting was for seeing a man he’d have believed dead if the occasional report hadn’t cropped up featuring his name. Samson had been a good man once, but six years as a lyrium addict on the streets of Kirkwall would change anyone.

Samson held out a trembling hand. "Alive? Yes, no thanks to Meredith. I make do."

“What in the Maker’s name are you doing out here?”

“At a guess, roughly the same thing you are. To stop whatever’s going on back there.” He tilted his head back in the direction from which he had come. “I admit, I want Meredith to get the same treatment I did. I thought Thrask and his lot could give me that. But I guess she was right about one thing. Mages will always take more power if they can get it.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t give me much reason to trust you or your intentions, Samson. You’ve fallen far if you support rebellion and apostasy.”

“I supported a change,” Samson stressed. “But I don’t want any part of what’s happening down there. I may not be in the Order anymore, but I know my duty. That’s why I’m out here instead of down there with them. They’ve gone too far.”

“So you ran,” Cullen stated flatly. “Forgive me if I don’t find that especially reassuring.”

“I ran to get help,” Samson clarified. He turned about to look over the templars that Cullen had brought. He nodded once. “Trustworthy lot you’ve brought with you.”

They bristled, and Cullen scowled. “And you would know?”

“This conspiracy stretches further than you or Meredith might realise,” he said darkly.

“So I’m beginning to see. This need to be shut down before things get out of hand. You can still be useful, Samson. Give me an assessment of the situation.”

Samson reeled off a list of numbers and strengths. Even focused as Cullen was on listening, he could feel Samson’s measuring gaze. It had been a long time since they had last seen each other. Now he seemed to be trying to compare the man he saw now against the one he had known.

Every one of them stiffened as Samson closed out with the last of the report. The ringleader of the mages was definitely a blood mage. The others were suspected to have dabbled in some form of forbidden magic.

“Maker, Samson. I’m amazed that you could ever have been willing to side with them,” Cullen snapped. “What templar could possibly be willing to support blood magic? Even the best of intentions wouldn’t justify that.”

“It didn’t start out like this,” Samson growled. “But Thrask has either lost control, or lost his mind. Believe me, I went to find you so that we can put a stop to this. Let me help, if you’ll have me.”

Cullen considered it for a moment. “You were a good templar once. It seems I need every loyal blade I can get.” With a nod, he signalled the ring of templars to part. “Let’s move.”

They continued heading east, marching along the uneven slopes of the Wounded Coast. The road’s surface roughened as they moved further out of Kirkwall, until it was nothing more than a beaten track covered in sand and scattered stones.

Cullen raised an eyebrow at Samson’s gear as the man fell into step beside him. His leathers might be of cheap make, but the sword was functional, if not lyrium-infused Templar steel. Impressive that he’d managed to hold on to anything of value. A lyrium habit was punishingly expensive without the chantry’s support. The shield was the biggest surprise. A standard Templar-issue shield in brilliantly polished steel with its crisply etched sword of mercy. Even the red paint lining the edges was pristine.

“If I recall, I relieved you of all your equipment when you left.”

“More like kicked out than left.” A smirk twisted Samson’s mouth as he reached up a hand and patted the shield. “Donated by a generous soul who thought I could be more than an addict.” Samson looked over his shoulder. The Knights-Templar were just far enough behind them to be out of hearing range. "It’s been a while since we’ve caught up. I have to admit, it was quite the surprise to hear you'd made Knight-Captain. How old were you? Nineteen?"

"Twenty.” His response was curt. The idle comment led back to the insidious thought that Meredith had promoted him only because he had been young and broken. Easy to mould in her image. “If you’re suggesting that my age makes me incapable of handling the position, you can keep that opinion to yourself.”

"Not at all,” he replied, raising a hand in wordless apology. “You might not have been who people expected, but I hear you’ve handled everything this city’s thrown at you.”

Cullen looked over with surprise. Samson’s ‘sources’ included escaped mages — although they’d never actually caught him in the act of helping them — and disgruntled templars. Not the first people from whom he’d expect a positive testimony. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you, Samson.”

Samson shrugged. “You adjusted quickly even as a junior officer. And you’re making the best of a bad situation.” He walked a few more steps in silence before giving Cullen a sly glance. “Still on that half dose of yours?"

"I don't see how that's any of your concern," Cullen responded flatly.

"Oh ho,” he chuckled knowingly. “Full dose it is then. You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” he added. “How'd you rationalise it? Burning yourself on the pyre of duty?"

“Not. Your. Concern. Samson,” Cullen ground out.

He felt mildly nauseous at Samson’s words. The whisper that had been silent for years returned. _Addict._ A full dose of lyrium felt so much _better_ than a half dose. _It_ _’s not why I did it,_ he insisted to that whispering voice.

Samson held up his hands. “Fair enough. I suppose you’re not interested in continuing a friendship with an old wreck like me.”

“You can’t expect to pick things up where we left off six years ago. I was your superior officer even back then. I’d ask you to remember that circumstances have changed even more now.”

Samson cast an unreadable look over Cullen’s gleaming Knight-Captain’s armour. “Believe me. I know that, Ser.” Cullen caught the hint of surprise on Samson’s face as the admission of senior rank slipped out automatically. His next words were something approaching deferential. “The rumours were right. The position suits you, Knight-Captain. Times really have changed.”

The scout jogged forwards to catch up to them. He tilted his chin towards the path ahead of them. “I’m familiar with the area, Ser. There’s a ruined waystation not too far ahead. My guess is that our targets are there.”

Beside Cullen, Samson nodded a confirmation. “Far enough from Kirkwall that there’s no one to interfere or even see them.”

They marched forwards more cautiously, wary for sparks of magic or the glint of steel in the weak sunshine. The lone scout ranged out ahead now that they knew they were close. The sandy path sloped gently downwards, parallel to the gently rippling water below. In the distance lay their goal, a spit of land held within the shelter of outcroppings of jet stone. At the very tip, broken ruins could just be made out. The remnants of an old waystation, lost when bandits had begun to run rife across the Wounded Coast. Sheltered as the location was, it was impossible to see the renegades.

They reached a rough path that split off from the main route, snaking down precipitously from the clifftops to sea level. The scout lurked in the shelter of a rock, arrow casually nocked as he split his gaze between the waystation below and Cullen’s approach.

“I’m hardly needed to find the place, Ser,” he muttered as Cullen stepped up to him.

The scout was right. Scarring from magical attacks marked the cliffs and had turned the odd patches of sand into lumps of glass. And scattered across the path, a cluster of corpses lay in various stages of decay. One still twitched convulsively, the body not quite damaged enough to have forced the spirit possessing it to return to the fade. With an efficient slash, Cullen separated the head from its body. Not as effective as cremation, but it would serve. In the wilds outside the city, there would be far to many lost corpses open to possession by weaker spirits. Bandits weren’t the only danger out here.

He poked the tip of his sword through a pile of ooze and rags. Not just possessed corpses, but a demon drawn from the Fade. Hardly a more obvious sign that there was at least one blood mage below.

He raised an eyebrow at Samson. “You killed all these yourself? Who knew six years out of the Order would be that good for your skills.”

Samson shrugged. “Not me.”

Cullen shook his head at Samson’s evasiveness. “We need to move.”

He scanned the narrow pathway and the spit of land below. Assuming they hadn’t left, Thrask and his co-conspirators were cut off now. He ordered caution and led the way down the treacherous path with a wary stride.

A templar exclaimed in disgust as a battered skeleton, bones held together with nothing but leathery skin and sinew, grabbed at his robes. Its lower half lay a few feet away, separated clean in two by a heavy blade. With a kick, the templar crushed the skeleton’s skull and sent it tumbling into the sea below.

Cullen frowned in confusion. So far, it seemed that all their work had been done for them. And by a mage too, judging by the obvious magical residue in the air. Perhaps a mage had broken off from Thrask’s clandestine rebellion.

The path smoothed out just above sea level. On this narrow stretch of land, the lingering mana in the air was obvious. Some kind of magical conflict had taken place recently. He accelerated into a jog, more than ready to draw his blade. He had no idea what was happening, but they certainly weren’t going to stand to one side with the possibility of a pitched magical battle being fought only minutes ago.

He drew to a halt as they entered the shelter of the ruined waystation. Despite the scene of battle around him, a trickle of exasperation filtered through his focus. Hawke and three of her companions. It was quite amazing how often she turned up right at the forefront of whatever latest trouble plagued Kirkwall.

Samson jogged a few steps further into the clearing. “I got here as soon as I-” he began to call out before he belatedly saw what was ahead of him. “Oh.”

Cullen advanced with a little more caution. With a quick glance, he absorbed the scene. Five dead templars, Thrask among them. Three dead mages, the ground around them marked with gory splashes of blood that painted smooth arcs on the sand and glistened wetly in the sunshine. _Templars working with blood mages,_ Cullen thought with a mixture of disgust and horror.

In the shade of the ruins, looking as through they wanted nothing to do with the carnage in front of them, a handful more mages and templars lurked. To a person, their weapons were sheathed. Had they simply chosen to stand back, or had it been a statement of disapproval? Perhaps there were as many schisms in Thrask’s rebellion as the Order at large.

His tensely wound readiness eased a little bit. Whatever conflict had happened was clearly over. He almost felt disappointed. All that worry and preparation, to find that the worst had already been handled without him.

He glowered at Hawke. She clutched her staff idly in one hand and draped the other over the shoulders of a man in Grey Warden plate. Her brother, looking much older and more worn. To one side, Varric settled his crossbow on his back, a toothy smile on his face. An unfamiliar elf with distinctive branching tattoos slowly lowered a sword almost as tall as he was, and behind him, an archer in brilliant white armour leaned against his bow. Cullen blinked in mild confusion at the sight of the man. Last he had seen that face, he had been wearing the robes of a Chantry Brother, demanding vengeance from the Order.

“Champion.” Cullen stated suspiciously, turning back to glare at Hawke. “Samson never said you were involved in this.” He cast a significant look at the dead bodies. “I trust you were here to stop these traitors, and not join them.”

A mage eased out of the shelter of the ruins. Another familiar face belonging to one of the Starkhaven apostates retrieved so many years ago. A closer look at the dead mages showed that they too had been Starkhaven apostates. The same apostates that Thrask had been assigned to watch over so many years ago, and the same ones he had insisted meant no harm. _Why am I not surprised?_

The mage clasped his hands in a plea. “The Champion’s a fine lady, Ser. She tried to resolve things peacefully.”

Cullen grunted in disgust. _What a mess._ “Put the mage to questioning.”

Hawke dropped her arm from around her brother and took a step forwards. “The boy stood up to his elders when they would have killed an innocent hostage.”

“Hostages in addition to forbidden magic? More evidence to damn them,” he snapped. “What you mean is that the mage was one of them, save for a convenient last-minute change of heart.” He sighed. Still, he could hardly recommend Tranquility if the mage really had recognised wrongdoing, last-minute or otherwise. “I’ll encourage Knight-Commander Meredith to take it easy on him.”

The mage breathed a visible sigh of relief. “Thank you, Champion.”

Cullen glared in the direction of the other figures lurking in the shadows. “Everyone else here is under arrest.” He called forwards the templars behind him. “Take them to the Gallows.”

The templars swept around either side of him and restrained the docile mages and templars. Cullen kept a vigilant eye on the process for a moment and, when it became clear that there would be no resistance, turned back to Hawke.

“Perhaps you might explain what you’re doing here. Samson has given his excuses. The evidence suggests you weren’t allied with this group, so I can’t imagine what business you might have had with them.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your Knight-Commander asked me to investigate rumours of a conspiracy in the Gallows,” she gestured around herself. “So here I am.”

“She did,” Cullen stated flatly.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know. Who would have thought she would trust an apostate more than her own templars,” she joked lightly.

Cullen kept his expression neutral, but the comment stung more than he liked to admit and forced the cold fingers of betrayal a little further into his mind. “It’s her prerogative to handle matters as she sees fit,” he replied smoothly. “Perhaps you can shed some light on what happened here?”

“Thrask here made the mistake of trusting a blood mage. Grace turned on him and then on me. I knew she was trouble when I met her,” she muttered before eyeing him. “They wanted Meredith gone, you know. I suppose that would have made you Knight-Commander if they’d got what they wanted. Either that, or they had an issue with you too.”

Cullen shuddered. “Maker. I’d rather not have that burden.” He inclined his head in thanks. “The Order appreciates your continued support.”

“They kidnapped my brother.” For a second, a darker note touched her tone. “Add the blood magic, the murder and the fact that they seemed happy to attack first and ask questions never, and I was a little short on sympathy.”

“I find it impossible to believe they could have strayed so far from the Order’s duty. Thrask’s misguided attempts at kindness clearly blinded him to corruption,” Cullen replied grimly. He turned a disgusted look on the dead blood mages. “To ally himself with murderous blood mages? I wouldn’t have believed it if the evidence wasn’t in front of me.”

Hawke hefted her staff in one hand. “I have to admit, the mages in Kirkwall aren’t doing a great job of convincing people that they’re trustworthy.” She expression clouded over and she glanced around her before taking a step closer to Cullen. “On that subject. I’m worried that one of my … associates is plotting against the chantry.”

Cullen felt a surge of confused relief that was quickly replaced by concern. Her worry had to be serious if she was willing to give up one of her long-term associates. “Thank you, Champion. I needn’t ask who you mean. Knight-Commander Meredith and Grand Cleric Elthina have been informed that Anders may be a danger.”

Her expression lightened. “That may be the first time I’ve been happy to hear those words.” She settled her staff on her back. “I’d better get out of your way before you remember I’m an apostate.”

“Maker’s breath, don’t remind me,” he growled, before making a vain attempt to shake off the surge of discomfort. “Considering that Knight-Commander Meredith seems to value your opinion highly, Champion, is there any recommendation you would have me bring to her?”

“Maybe hold back on the executions? If you killed every man who doubted Meredith’s fitness, Kirkwall would be a ghost town.”

“You think that reason enough to spare blood mages and their willing dupes?” He responded incredulously. But he considered the request for a moment. There was too much death in Kirkwall, and he had lost any taste he might once have had for backing the executions he knew Meredith would demand. He sighed. “Perhaps some of them might still be saved. I’ll make the recommendation.” He nodded his thanks again. “Thank you for your assistance, Champion. Maker knows what could have happened here.”

She waved a cheerful farewell and slipped away. Cullen and more than a few of the templars with him watched her departure until she was out of view. And out of spell range. Habits were hard to break.

When she had disappeared, he strode over to where Samson lurked unobtrusively. “You didn’t think to mention that the most famous apostate in the Free Marches was down here?”

Samson smiled dryly. “I didn’t think a Knight-Captain of the Templar Order would be willing to go help an apostate. Didn’t realise you were friends.”

Cullen barked out an incredulous laugh. “Friends? Hardly. But she has been an ally to the Order over the years.”

“An apostate that Meredith can’t touch. I bet it drives her crazy,” chuckled Samson. “Looks like she’s trying to get a hold in a slightly different way.”

“Champion Hawke does hold an odd status in this city,” Cullen acknowledged.

“And what about me, Ser? You know I want to serve.”

Samson had his hands clasped behind his back, but Cullen knew he would see their tremor. It was the lyrium that Samson wanted more than his place in the Order. “You’re an addict, Samson. And you assisted apostate mages in Kirkwall for years, whether or not we ever found proof. Hardly a glowing recommendation for your reinstatement.”

The accusations didn't faze him. “I know what I am. I did what I could to survive after Meredith tossed me out. But I need this second chance. Please, Knight-Captain, the Order was my life.”

Cullen thought it over for a moment. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He scanned the area one final time and murmured a brief fragment of the prayer for the departed. Thrask had got himself killed through his convictions. As sad as that was, a larger part of him was sickened by what Thrask had allowed, either explicitly or unknowingly. If there was ever a time that demonstrated the dangers of too much trust, it was now.

~~~~

The march back to the Gallows was conducted in near silence. Cullen wasn’t interested in hearing excuses or pleas from their captive templars and mages. Instead, he focused on formulating his report to Meredith. Maker willing, she’d be happy to ignore his borderline rebellion in handling the matter without her approval.

The journey seemed to pass at many times the speed of the march outward. All the weight that had been left behind resettled on Cullen's shoulders as they stepped back into Kirkwall's tight maze. The humming of lyrium as they denied the captive mages their magic seemed suddenly less comforting. Every wary glance reminded him that people had good reason to distrust the Order.

They passed a Templar patrol on their return through Lowtown. One under Meredith's personal command, one of those recently established to investigate reports of apostasy in Kirkwall. Their salutes as they spotted him were more wary than deferential. Cullen spared them a guarded look of his own. Those patrols were an open secret.  _How much more does Meredith keep concealed from me?_

The crowds filling the docks gave the column a wary berth, unsure what to make of seeing both templars and mages under guard. Their ferry was tellingly empty. Few people visited the Gallows these days, and those few who had been about to visit certainly weren't going to share the ferry with Cullen's force of templars.

Before Cullen was quite aware of it, the ferry had arrived at the Gallows’ docks. With Samson waiting in the courtyard and their captives installed in the cells, Cullen made his cautious way to Meredith’s office. He was grateful to find that she had made an appearance in the Gallows. As an even better sign, her door was open, indicating that she was happy to welcome unexpected meetings. She must have been in a surprisingly good mood.

“Please, sit, Cullen,” she said with a gesture towards the seat opposite hers as he entered. “I hear you have been absent from the Gallows much of the day. I pray it was nothing too serious?”

“I’m afraid it was, Knight-Commander.” He hauled in a fortifying breath and began his summary.

Her expression darkened as Cullen went through his report. “You are quite convinced that Ser Thrask and this Grace were the ringleaders?”

“Absolutely.”

“Hmm.” Her gaze drifted past him to the open door.

He followed her gaze to Orsino’s office. “The First Enchanter had nothing to do with this. By all accounts, Ser Thrask instigated the rebellion. Not a mage.”

"We shall see,” she murmured under her breath before focusing back on him. “Now we must handle these rebels.” She clenched her fists. “You will see that they are executed immediately. I want them displayed such that no one will ever even consider such rebellion again.”

His mind painted a picture for a moment. The heads of renegades mounted on the walls of the Gallows would not be the deterrent that Meredith hoped it would be. There was no surer way of turning opinion against them. Even so, he found himself reluctant to edge further into disloyalty by arguing against her order. He wavered on the edge of complying before rejecting the cowardly thought. Without the Champion’s support, he would have had no leverage to convince Meredith. But with that implied support, he could follow his instincts.

“I have an alternate recommendation that might avoid exacerbating the tension in the Gallows,” he offered. He rushed out the remainder of his words before she could speak the rejection he saw hovering on her lips. “The Champion herself made a request for a more lenient ruling.”

Cullen could see her hesitate on the edge of rejecting his offer. It was almost possible to see the political calculations churning behind her narrowed eyes. “I will hear your suggestion,” she responded grudgingly.

He breathed an internal sigh of relief. Without that defence, she would have overruled whatever suggestion he made.

“Suspension without pay for the templar culprits. Their fault is in being too trusting. Those who sided with blood mages have already paid the price for their betrayal. The others might still be saved.” Meredith looked thoughtful. He forged on with the rest of his suggestion. “Sedation for the mages. Enough to suppress their magical abilities until we can determine whether they are a threat to the Gallows.”

The delayed anger emerged in full force. Meredith looked incensed. “I find it hard to believe you would propose leniency for blood mages, Cullen.”

“Leniency is not my intention, but until they are fully assessed, we can’t be certain that they _are_ blood mages.” He almost couldn’t believe what he was saying. _Maker. After the wardens freed me from that horror six years ago, I_ begged _for immediate execution._ Withdrawal and trauma didn’t seem a good enough excuse for that loss of rational thought. “The infirmary has a concoction that is used to calm delirious mages who have temporarily lost control of their magic. It means there’s no need to have a templar on hand to silence the mage’s magic for the entire duration of their recovery. A mixture of magebane and-”

“I know the potion to which you refer,” she snapped. “You would allow them to walk free.”

“They would remain confined to their chambers, but without any concerns on restraining potential blood mages. Better their magic is temporarily denied them than requiring a templar to watch their every move day and night.” He leaned forwards to emphasise his point, growing more confident as she didn’t reject his argument out of hand. “If we make every one of them Tranquil without justification, or worse, conduct a mass execution, you are guaranteed open conflict in this Circle.”

“Which we could handle. Easily,” she responded irritably. “Any templar in the Circle should be willing to give their lives to crush such a rebellion. I would gladly lead the charge myself.”

“Of course, Knight-Commander,” he replied, although the realisation that she was so willing to throw away lives was bitter. “But better we aren’t required to risk templar lives at all.”

She scanned his face for a long moment. “Your logic is sound. See it done. I pray I do not come to regret this peculiar recommendation.”

“As ordered, Knight-Commander.” He paused and recalled Samson, waiting outside in the Gallows courtyard. “Raleigh Samson proved his loyalty to the Order today. I would suggest that he might be reinstated.”

Meredith waved a hand, clearly distracted. “Do as you see fit. Any templar who proves their loyalty to me is welcome.”

“I will inform him.” He exhaled. She seemed in a relatively accommodating mood so far and hadn’t even blinked at his decision to pursue an investigation without consulting her first. Maybe he could risk the question. “If I may, Knight-Commander,” he began cautiously, “Why trust the Champion with this investigation over me?”

Her expression shut down and she pinned him with a glacial look. Her expression darkened from distracted to thunderous in an instant. Cullen had to restrain a flinch at the impossibly fast change in mood. Another headache flared into life, shattering his focus.

“My decisions are my own,” she hissed. “Need I remind you that I am not required to explain myself to men under my command, Knight-Captain? This is _my_ Circle. Kirkwall is _my_ city. I will not be defied.”

Cullen fought to suppress the sudden surge of adrenaline that had his hand itching for his sword. She was his Knight-Commander, not a threat. He exhaled a flare of angry resentment. “My apologies, Knight-Commander,” he replied curtly, voice echoing unpleasantly in his skull. _After all, I_ _’m only your second in command. Why trust me?_ He finished with silent sarcasm.

“I have matters to which I must attend,” she snapped acidly. “Leave me.”

Cullen stalked from her office. Behind him, the door snapped shut and the lock clicked. The sound echoed with an odd buzz. Impossibly, his headache flared a little higher until the dim light leaking into the corridor from the courtyard stabbed sharp needles into Cullen’s eyes. He hissed in pain and leaned against the wall, massaging his forehead. The cool touch of metal gauntlets barely helped ease the pain pulsing in time with the measured beat of his heart. _She is not mad._ It sounded like a plea, even in his own mind. Her final vicious words hadn't been reassuring on that front. But Thrask's actions had him second-guessing himself yet again. If he questioned Meredith's fitness to lead — even in her best interests — it would be mutiny, just like Thrask. But loyalty and respect was starting to seem more like a continuation of the wilful blindness he thought he'd rejected.

Despite the buzzing throb behind his temples, he eased himself away from the wall. He had to move now, before Meredith changed her mind. Even he hadn’t the nerve to defy her orders again. A sudden shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the biting breeze that cut through the corridor. He had the sickening realisation that he could be removed just as easily as Harmoran had been, so many years ago. Those who defied Meredith were not treated kindly. Perhaps his position as second in command was less solid than it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could argue that this chapter is a bit canon-divergent with Cullen already having found a lot out. In-game, Samson manages to get to Kirkwall, take a ferry to the Gallows, get a meeting with Cullen, convince him, and get back within five minutes of leaving Hawke. It makes a lot more sense if Cullen was part way there and already had an idea that something was going on.
> 
> There is an option in-game to suggest that Meredith should just execute the rebels. Even if Hawke doesn’t explicitly ask for mercy, Cullen suggests the softer option to Meredith, so combine that with how unhappy he sounds if the execution option is chosen, and the more lenient path is obviously what he prefers by this point (a nice subtle demonstration of character growth). He's still no Thrask though. Thrask is the opposite of post-Kinloch Cullen: so focused on being nice to mages that he forgets that mages can be corrupt too.


	32. Shatter

**10th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

Winter had finally broken. No more desultory flakes of snow that were mostly melted by the time they hit the city streets. This was a downpour in true Kirkwall fashion. Fat rainclouds had blown in from the Waking Sea. Perhaps even from the Amaranthine Ocean beyond that. Now they dumped their ocean’s supply of water on the city in a deluge that had started in the late hours of the previous day and showed no signs of stopping.

Cullen might have considered delaying his monthly meeting with Ambris. She would have understood. No one was eager to venture out in this weather. Certainly not people required to wear plate armour prone to rusting and robes that liked nothing better than soaking up every drop of water offered to them.

Instead, he fumed silently as he stalked through Hightown’s streets towards the chantry. The deluge cut visibility down to only a few feet ahead, turning the maze-like streets of Kirkwall into an oppressive grey tunnel. Rain drops played an enthusiastic tune on his armour, pinging off his pauldrons and completing drowning out the unavoidable sound of his armoured footsteps. The skirts of his robes weighed perhaps twice what they should have done as they flapped wetly about his legs.

He took an almost vicious pleasure from the obvious misery of his escort trailing behind him. They stopped just short of feigned sneezes, but the exaggerated sniffs weren’t too far from those theatrics. They had known better than to question his orders, but the ferry captain had forgotten all deference and offered a disbelieving look to Cullen as he had appeared, ready to cross into Kirkwall. He’d been lucky to retain his lucrative contract with the Order by the time Cullen had finished.

Right now, he simply didn’t care. Even the streets of Kirkwall were preferable to remaining in the Gallows. If a blood mage materialised from some back alley and turned the rain red, he might actually be pleased to see them.

After more than a week of nothing but silence from Meredith, Cullen had final dared broach the subject of whether she intended to grant permission to arrest Anders. And she had shut down his request. In her words, they had to enforce lasting control over the Circle before they wasted time on rumours and suspicions. As if her single-minded fixation on Orsino wasn’t that same. It had taken every single hard-earned ounce of control to restrain an angry demand for an explanation.

This was nothing like the case of Ser Emeric’s possible blood mage in Hightown, turned down for similar reasons. This time, he had a clear threat, verified by a long-time associate of Anders’ and a prominent member of Kirkwall society. And she had ignored it. His patience had teetered on the edge of shattering. He’d offered only the most cursory of salutes before stalking out of her office.

Drafted letters to the Seekers of Truth and Knight-Vigilant Trentwatch now waited on his desk. The only reason they hadn’t been sealed and sent was a vague feeling that such drastic decisions had to be made with a clear head.

Despite the immaturity of the thought, he couldn’t help but feel an extra layer of irritation. All this rain meant extra time spent cleaning and tending to his armour this evening. As if there weren’t better things to be doing.

He exhaled for a few measured heartbeats, and inhaled. _Thank the Maker for all the mental exercises drilled into us as recruits_. Another controlled breath, the fresh scent of rain filling his nostrils.

By the time they reached the chantry, the rain had gone some way to cooling his head. The spacious courtyard outside was almost empty. A lone servant hurried across in front of him, a jacket held over her head in a vain attempt to keep out the torrential rain. Her smile towards the rain-soaked templars was sympathetic.

Cullen marched up the stairs towards the chantry’s main doors, sealed against the inclement weather. He paused a moment just beyond the heavy bronze doors. The pattering sound as water dripped from his saturated robes was loud in the emptiness of the chantry. Even the most devout souls weren’t willing to brave the downpour outside.

Inside the chantry, the sound of rain was muted to a soothing dull hiss. Warm torchlight and the gentle flicker of the eternal flame was enough to go some way towards relieving the grey unpleasantness of the weather outside. Cullen heaved in a resstrained sigh of relief and spared a moment to whisper a brief prayer in the direction of the statue of Andraste at the far end of the hall.

He nodded a thanks and dismissal to his escort. Strictly, they should have waited outside the chantry until they were needed again, but he couldn’t do that to them after dragging them on the long walk up to Hightown. They saluted and wandered idly through the empty hall. It just so happened that their path took them a little closer to the warmth of the eternal flame. To pray, of course.

He spotted Ambris making her way to the entrance. Her look of surprise was visible from all the way across the cavernous hall. “Knight-Captain,” she called out, with a pointed look towards the stained glass windows against which the rain was beating. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here today.”

Cullen accepted her salute with a wry smile. “The break from the Gallows is appreciated.”

“I can imagine.” She gestured in the direction of the templars’ barracks. “After you, Ser.”

Cullen’s gaze skimmed over the empty posts where templars usually stood. “The Val Royeux delegation is still away, I assume.”

“Yes, Ser,” she confirmed. “I expect they’ll be back by the end of next week.” She exhaled irritably. “Pardon me for saying it, Ser, but I hate being so short-handed.”

She pushed open her office door and waited for Cullen to sit with a cautious squelch before settling herself in a chair.

“Then I have bad news for you,” Cullen responded. “The Knight-Commander refused your request for temporary reinforcements. With so many suspended, no one can be spared.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised, Ser.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “We’ll make do.”

“As must we all,” Cullen sighed.

Ambris gaze sharpened. “From what I hear, things are back under control in the Circle. It’s just Kirkwall that’s causing problems. I pray the rumours aren’t wrong?”

“Much the same as before. It could be better.” Cullen cleared his throat and caught his hand just before it reached up to rub the back of his neck. “You’ve served longer than I have, Ser Ambris.”

“Is that a polite way of saying it’s time for my retirement?” She chuckled grimly. “I’m sure the Templar monastery in Val Royeux is lovely. _”_

 _Lovely. And the templars there are so far gone that they don_ _’t even realise what it means to be sent there._ Cullen had sent more than a few ailing templars to their permanent retirement there. Thankfully, he’d never had to visit the palce himself. The thought of seeing all those templars — young and old — lost in their own minds or raging after phantom apostates was vaguely nauseating. By the time Val Royeux was necessary, the signs were glaringly obvious. The case that concerned him was a little harder.

“So I’ve heard.” Cullen shook his head with the barest flicker of a smirk that died quickly. “You were my superior officer, even if only for a few months. I’d appreciate your input on a rather serious matter, in the utmost confidence.”

Any hint of black humour faded from her face. “Of course, Ser.”

“I have concerns that a templar has begun to suffer from the effects of the extended use of lyrium. I’ve seen plenty of cases, but no doubt not as many as you have. How does one best judge the case when some of the suspected signs are easily justified, given the subject’s position?”

Ambris let out a contemplative hum. “Every templar is different. Sometimes, they deteriorate over the course of years. Other times, a templar is fine one day and can’t remember anything other than their own name and rank the next. A lucky few live their whole lives with barely any negative effects. Others begin to suffer before they’d even reached your age. You could always refer the case to the Knight-Commander if you’re not cert-” The blood drained from her face as the sudden realisation hit her. Her eyes flickered unconsciously upwards and she mouthed a quick prayer. “Andraste preserve us. You’re not suggesting…?” She stopped, unwilling even to finish the sentence. “You’ll be charged with mutiny and expelled from the Order if you’re wrong.”

“I know. Maker forgive me for even considering it.” He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “I pray I _am_ wrong, but I’m currently the only person in Kirkwall with the authority to handle the case.”

“Maker,” she whispered. “This is serious, isn’t it?”

Cullen took a fortifying breath. _I hesitated far too long, clearly this will not resolve itself._ “Knight-Lieutenant Ambris,” she automatically straightened in her chair at the formal address. “From this point forwards, any orders you receive directly from Knight-Commander Meredith should be verified with me first.”

“Ser-” she began before Cullen stopped her with a raised hand.

“All being well, you won’t hear anything until the Knight-Vigilant or Seekers arrive from Val Royeaux. Worse, Knight-Commander Meredith will be temporarily relieved of duty until the situation can be resolved cleanly. Absolute worst case scenario, the next you hear of me will be my expulsion from the Order.”

“Right, Ser.” Her expression was the grimmest he had ever seen on her. “Will you warn the other Knights-Lieutenant?”

“I can’t take the risk. One misspoken word and expulsion is guaranteed.” He took another breath. “Should the worst case scenario come to pass, this would be my last order to you: I want you to keep the Grand Cleric secure. Do not let her or anyone else come to the Gallows — whatever news you hear and however much she insists —  until you are utterly sure it is safe. Frankly, I would prefer if she was out of the city entirely.”

Ambris paled further. There was only one situation that required that grave order. “I understand, Ser.” Her salute was perfectly crisp and precise, even from the seated position. “Andraste give you strength, Knight-Captain Cullen. You’ve served well in the six years I’ve known you. I pray you can continue to do so.”

“If not, I’ll be exiled to some Maker-forsaken Orlesian desert to find out whether lyrium withdrawal, dehydration, or starvation kills me first,” he commented dryly.

“That wouldn’t do for a Fereldan like you, Ser,” she replied with a vague smile in response to his grim humour. “Don’t you all need to die on a mountain peak with a mabari by your side?”

“Maker,” Cullen sighed, “I’m not sure I deserve that kind of peace.”

When he returned to the Gallows that afternoon, the pair of letters were dispatched by fast courier to Val Royeaux. They couldn’t outrun word regarding the Right of Annulment. An answer was only a week away. Maker willing, they wouldn’t need to.

**11th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

They were dead. All of them. First Annlise had died in slow agony drawn out over hours. Her body had been left where it fell, drained and shattered. Then Beval had succumbed to Desire and been coldly executed mere inches from where Cullen had stood, helpless and desperate. Then Farris had succumbed to the combined ordeal of Despair and lyrium withdrawal. The abominations had played with his corpse and left the butchered pieces propped on a spike where Cullen couldn’t help but see it.

It had been inevitable, with the veil so torn and ragged. When the first spirit possessed one of the broken bodies, Cullen could barely restrain a terrified yell. The corpse of his own Knight-Corporal pulled itself on the ragged stumps of its arms towards Cullen. He scuttled to the opposite side of the barrier and whimpered out a prayer that the barrier was as impervious to the corpse as it was to him. The corpse clutched at the barrier and gibbered mindlessly for hours on end until a passing abomination absently crushed its skull as it walked past. But the body rested with half a face turned towards him and an arm reaching out as if pleading.

They watched him, hour after hour. So did every corpse of the templars and mages he hadn’t been able to help, trapped as he was behind the magical barrier. His sanity had already begun to crumble as one after another, people he knew were brutally murdered and left to rot in front of him. Then were brought to a parody of life again as spirits claimed the bodies and sent them crawling towards him.

In those early days, it seemed as if the demons had somehow left him to suffer exclusively under Uldred’s absent-minded attention. And then Desire slid delicate fingers into his mind to peel away what little was left of that sanity. One cruel layer at a time.

Now Cullen could only kneel and pray. The demon would come. He would break. If not this time, then another. And if not the demon, then the withdrawal that pulled at his bones. Or Uldred would finally grow tired of his templar experiment and he would die in screaming terror as the others had, please morphing into mindless shrieking. He wasn’t sure these days whether the screams he heard were memories or real.

When a dissonant hum filled the air, it took a while for the sound to penetrate through to Cullen’s awareness, numbed as he was by horror. The sound grated discordantly through his bones and clashed with the almost imperceptible hum of lyrium in his blood. He blinked slowly in confusion. Something felt wrong. Whatever horrors his existence might hold, there was familiarity amongst the screams and the mutilated corpses and the torments of Desire. Any memory of another reality was just a dream. But this didn’t fit.

“Cullen.” The familiar voice held a grating edge, like the muted buzzing of a wasp.

Cullen hadn’t the energy to do more than lethargically lift his bowed head from over his folded hands. “Keep away d-demon,” he whispered for the thousandth time as Beval grinned at him from the opposite side of the enclosure. This was surely proof that his sanity had finally fled. He had shared the enclosure with the body until its features were barely identifiable. Now it would speak to him.

Beval’s decayed body lurched towards him with unnatural speed. Cullen flinched back in disbelief and retreated desperately. His fatigue was replaced by raw fear. He was brought to a halt as his back hit the barrier. A malevolent smirk twisted Beval’s mouth and his eyes glinted red, just for a second, mirroring the bloody scarlet glow that bathed the antechamber. Scarlet? _No, this isn_ _’t right_ , Cullen thought in helpless dread, _what is this?_

Beval’s arm whipped up to crush Cullen’s throat and press him against the barrier with incredible strength. Sharp metal edges bit into his skin and the smell of rot filled his nose. The discordant hum rose louder as the barrier’s buzz shivered through his bones. Even that vibration felt somehow more malevolent, resonating with the dregs of lyrium left to him until his whole body seemed to be on fire.

Beval chuckled as Cullen choked and scrabbled for purchase. The sound was long, low and cruel, edged with that buzzing hum.

“Why do you deserve to live when hundreds of others have died in this tower? In Kirkwall? You should be dead, Cullen. Dead. Just like the rest of us.” Flickers of familiar faces, mouths open in silent screams, drifted over his shoulders. A renewed trickle of blood oozed from his pierced breastplate and filled the etched sword of mercy with its own sanguine glow. “Just. Like. Me.” He punctuated each word with a shove that ground Cullen into the unyielding barrier and crushed his throat.

Cullen felt something give way. His vision began to blacken around the edges and he felt … relief.

Cullen woke with a jolt and hauled in deep breaths of pure, untainted air. A hand rose unconsciously to soothe the echo of cold metal crushing his throat. He blinked for a few seconds as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the glowstone on his shelf.

But the discordant hum continued, even having woken from the nightmare. Or what he had thought was a nightmare. A heartrate that had just started to slow shot right back up again. The orange light of the glowstone suddenly seemed tinged red. _No_ , he thought in horror. _I_ _’m still trapped._ This _is the dream_. The sheer terror in that thought skittered over the sleep-hazed surface of his mind.

Before he was quite aware of what he was doing, he had grabbed his sword from its stand and burst out into the quiet corridor outside his quarters with a racing heart and rapid breathing that scraped at his raw throat. The demon would be here. Somewhere. All he had to do was kill it and reality would return. He bit down on a moan of horror. He could not give the demon the pleasure of knowing how well it had tricked him.

The crash of the door hitting the wall was lost in the sound that filled his mind. He looked up and down the corridor, then down at the sword in his hand. He almost yelped. For a moment, the blackened blood of a demon had seemed to stain its entire length, gore coating his hand.

The grating hum continued, vibrating discordantly against the sweeter sound of the lyrium in his blood, stronger than it had been in the throes of the nightmare. There was something almost siren-like in that sound, with a tone that was harsher but as addictive as the pure melody of lyrium. _What new temptation is this?_ He gritted his teeth against the piercing pain in his head and nausea that nearly drove him to his knees.

The sound faded moments after he had burst from his room, and his mind cleared. The headache faded as quickly as it had arrived. Cold stone under his bare feet and the rough textured grip of his sword hilt grounded him again in reality. He glanced again in sick horror at the naked steel in his sweat-slick hand. The shining length of pristine steel wavered in his grip. It had been a long time since the nightmares had caused him to lose enough control to leap from his bed like that. The uncertainty and confusion between dreams and reality had been a relic of the breaking of the tower, long since left behind in Kinloch Hold. Or so he had thought. _Maker, not again._ Six years of recovery. Gone in a single night. His eyes burned.

Down the corridor, the Knight-Commander's door opened. Her standing there in templar robes rather than full armour only made the scene more surreal. Ignore the stern planes of her face and she would have looked more like a Revered Mother than a Templar Knight-Commander. She peered in curiosity at the sword in Cullen's hand. "Should I be concerned?"

Cullen flushed, and a trembling hand rose of its own accord to rub the back of his neck. "M-my ap-pologies, Knight-Commander.” He took a deep breath to suppress the stutter. “My dreams are occasionally, ah, rather vivid."

The attempt at a blithe response fell completely flat. Meredith had never outright admitted to any awareness of his broken sleep, but he knew she heard the shouts when he woke from a particularly traumatic nightmare.

It could have been an illusion brought on by the darkness of the corridor, but a smirk seemed to twist her mouth. "Understood. Good night, Knight-Captain."

 _She knows_ , whispered a terrified part of him. _Your weakness. Your betrayal. All of it._

Cullen started at the sound of her door closing, fear still chilling his blood. The nightmares were always cruel. But this one had been uncharacteristically intense. The memories. The guilt of survival. Accusations from the lips of dead friends. That was hardly uncommon. The rest? A braver man might have tried to interpret the scarlet drenched tone of the nightmare’s final moments. Whatever torture he had faced had been of the mind, not the body. That had been no memory.

He withdrew into his own quarters with a shudder. But the tattered remnants of the nightmare and of that siren call that had followed him had left him with a pounding heart and terror of falling back into the confusion between dreams and reality. It had taken him too many fear-filled hours and days to break that thought pattern. With a shivering exhalation that almost became a sob, he pulled on a robe and retreated desperately to the sanctity of the chantry. Maker knew how he would ever sleep properly again.

**12th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

The rain had finally stopped, leaving the streets of Kirkwall oddly clean of dust and detritus. In its wake, the city was left clean and fresh. With no haze of dust or humidity to cut down visibility, the peaks of the Vimmark range had stood out with crystalline clarity against an afternoon sky blue enough to rival lyrium. Now, faint pinpricks of the evening’s first stars were visible between thin streaks of cloud still lit in a brilliant orange by the setting sun. It could almost have been the fiery sky of Kirkwall during the Qunari invasion, if the city’s sprawl hadn’t looked so deceptively peaceful.

The departure of the heavy storm clouds and the rain they had brought ought to have been a relief. But the thought of the letter, speeding across the Free Marches to Val Royeux was a heavy enough weight to stand in for the rain. The red-lit dream of the previous night still skulked at the back of Cullen’s mind - not at all relieved by a night in the chantry - and left fatigue burning behind his eyes.

He turned from the main thoroughfare into the maze of side-streets and alleyways. This far into the depths of Lowtown, the sun might as well have already set for all the light that reached them. Kirkwall’s narrow lanes and towering homes didn’t need a deluge of rain to block sight lines.The city was nothing like a tiny Fereldan village, or even what little Cullen knew of Denerim. He had made a concerted effort to become familiar with as much of the city as possible. But he was still chagrined to find that he had to rely on natives as soon as he ventured into the more obscure districts.

Their trek seemed to have been long enough to take them out of the the city altogether. Hightown distanced itself from the docks and Darktown through its elevation. Lowtown’s better districts had to rely on horizontal distance. But the only way to tell that these streets belonged to a better district was that — unlike the districts closest to the docks — there hadn’t been any rubbish gathered in corners where it had been washed by the rain. The streets were just as closely packed, if relieved by more squares and wide boulevards. And the ubiquitous City of Chains graffiti marked the blank sandstone walls here just as much as it did the docks’ warehouses.

Their destination was a nondescript house nestled in a block of similar buildings. Three storeys of rough sandstone made a narrow home many times taller than it was wide. The house’s tiny windows were protected by the baffling spikes that decorated half of the lower city. In all, just like so many other homes in the area. It was baffling how any Kirkwallers knew where to find anything in the city.

The squad he had led slid into place behind him as he raised his hand and knocked sharply on the door.

“Templar Order. Open the door.” The order was spoken in a command voice honed over years of practice. They’d have to be deaf not to hear him.

There was no response. He’d chosen this time of day precisely because the inhabitants would be home. He found himself briefly consdering that Meredith’s suggestion had been sensible. City authority would certainly be helpful in cases like this. He shook the thought off. The Order didn’t have the right, and he certainly didn’t have the time. He was glad that Hawke had resolved that problem cleanly.

His second knock was louder. “Templar Order. Open the door. Now.”

This time there was a scuffing sound from behind the door and the sound of a set of locks snapping open. Living in a better part of the city didn’t guarantee safety.

The figure that appeared in the doorway was still clad in the flour-stained apron of his profession. His ready smile flickered out of existence as he took in his unexpected visitors.

“K-Knight-Captain.” He gulped and started again more confidently. His hands fluttered by his side as if he wasn’t sure whether to salute or offer a handshake or fold his arms defensively over his chest. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from a senior templar?”

Recognising templar ranks by sight was a necessary skill for any citizen of Kirkwall these days. But it was also a necessary skill for long-term apostates.

“Maker watch over you, Serah Hewlin. We appreciate the quick response.”

The man blinked, unsure whether he was being mocked. “Maker watch over you,” he responded automatically. “What is this about, Knight-Captain …?”

“Knight-Captain Cullen,” he supplied, although he had plenty of reason to believe that the man would know enough to name every senior templar in Kirkwall. “Might we come in?”

“Ah,” he responded with a tentative smile and eyed the squad behind Cullen. “I’m not sure I can refuse, Messere.”

With a friendly gesture that belied his reluctance, he welcomed Cullen into his home. The entrance hall was as narrow on the inside as the building had looked from the outside. An oil lamp on a table provided the only light source to illuminate their surroundings. It might have been a little cramped for Cullen’s liking, but it was clean and well-maintained.

He took in the stairway leading to the upper floors and the tight corridor leading to the rear portion of the house, before following Serah Hewlin into a cozily furnished parlour. Any family members had no doubt made themselves scarce on hearing their arrival. Cullen felt a touch of regret at the familiar lack of trust that demonstrated.

The squad’s Knight-Corporal followed close behind Cullen, his eyes tracking every corner that Cullen couldn’t cover himself. The rest stayed in the hall outside and on the street, alert for danger.

Serah Hewlin hovered by a chair and offered a smile that almost seemed genuine. “Will you sit?” He made an aborted move for the doorway. “Can I offer refreshments? It’s not often that someone like me gets to welcome a senior templar into their home.”

“Thank you, no. I won’t draw this out any longer than necessary.” Cullen clasped his hands behind his back. “We have been given reason to believe that you are an apostate mage.”

“Beloved Andraste,” he gasped in seemingly genuine shock. “Who would accuse me of that?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” responded Cullen. “The source claims you use magic to assist in your profession.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “It was Pier deChafont from Bronze Lane, wasn’t it? He can’t accept that a Fereldan can have a more successful business than him.” He looked imploringly at Cullen. “You’re a Fereldan, Knight-Captain. You haven’t lost the accent. You must know how Orlesians are.”

“If the accusation is false, the accuser will be penalised for wasting the Templar Order’s time,” Cullen replied coldly. Not the first time they’d had to deal with a false accusation. Not the first time an apostate had claimed they were falsely accused either. He gestured towards the door and the waiting templars. “Simply come with us to the Gallows and we can refute the claim.”

He paled. “Now?”

The air hummed as Cullen drew on lyrium to enforce a denial of magic. Their suspect didn’t react at all.

“Unless you have other plans,” Cullen replied dryly, no trace of disappointment in his tone. If their suspect was a mage, he had lived a long time as an apostate, in a city where templars were omnipresent. There was no better way to develop a keen instinct for self-preservation. He offered a cold smile. “This really isn’t a request. This is the Maker-given duty of the Templar Order. Join us in the Gallows, and then you can be on your way.”

“This is harassment,” he protested.

“You have every right to complain to the Chantry from whom we have been given authority. Or perhaps the Viscount’s Office.” His smile turned sharp at that barbed comment. “I’m sure Knight-Commander Meredith will be happy to receive a complaint. After the claim has been refuted. Or verified.”

The Knight-Corporal took a half step forwards. “Knight-Captain Cullen is a patient man, but he has better things to do than argue with you.” He raised a pair of manacles. “Cooperation is much easier for all of us.”

Cullen tensed at the sound of commotion outside the still-open door to the house. He took his eyes off their suspect for a moment to see what had caused the fuss. Serah Hewlin heaved a gentle sigh of relief that faltered at a withering look from the Knight-Corporal.

“-know he’s busy,” spoke an insistent voice, “but this is urgent, Knight-Templar.”

Cullen’s eyes widened in surprise. He recognised that voice, but what in the Maker’s name was Lovett doing here of all places? The man could either be found in the Gallows, or on increasingly rare outings to one of Hightown’s taverns. Certainly not in some dead-end Lowtown street a decent trek from the Gallows.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said shortly, and slipped out of the room.

Night had almost completely fallen now. The narrow slice of sky visible above had darkened to a deep shade of midnight blue that left the street in deep shadow. Lovett paced restlessly just outside the door. He was visible more as a darker shape, marked by the occasional reflection of lantern light off his armour. His shoulders rose and fell in time with his rapid breathing, as if he had run all the way here from the docks.

“What are you doing here, Ser Lovett?” Cullen questioned with irritation that shaded into confusion as he approached. “Are you-” he brought himself short. A templar wandering alone in the city streets, or worse, hunting phantom apostates, was one lost without hope to lyrium.

“Maker’s hairy balls. I’m fine,” Lovett snapped irritably at the aborted question. Cullen blinked in startled surprise at the uncharacteristic profanity from Lovett. More than anything else, that was a sign of borderline panic in a usually unflappable and devout templar. “I know what it looks like, but I’m fine. The only apostate here is the one you were just apprehending, and I know precisely where I am. You need to get back to the Gallows, Ser. Right now.”

Cullen’s blood ran cold. “What happened?” A host of images played through his head. An outbreak of blood magic. An abomination. Anything down to something as simple as flooding in the Circle after the torrential rain.

“The Knight-Commander outright accused First Enchanter Orsino of harbouring blood mages in the Circle, Ser.”

Any relief faded quickly. It might not be an outbreak of maleficar, but it wasn’t good. “Maker’s breath, that can’t have gone well.”

“That would be an understatement, Knight-Captain. Maker knows it shouldn’t have had such an effect, but Orsino just snapped. This isn’t like the other arguments they’ve had. If someone isn’t there to deescalate things, I’m worried that someone is going to do something they regret. At this point, it’s anyone’s guess who.” Lovett’s hands clenched convulsively by his side. He ran trembling fingers through his hair before clenching it into a fist again. “Really, Ser. We need you back there. Now.”

That desperate plea spurred Cullen into action. “Knight-Corporal,” he barked out sharply. “Secure the suspect. Get him to the Circle for testing. I’m needed in the Gallows.” He nodded to Lovett and began to move off at a jog. “Let’s move.”

The quiet streets reflected back the rattle of armour as they jogged. Cullen fired off a rapid series of questions for Lovett in between controlled breaths. On the face of things, Meredith’s request wasn’t even unreasonable. It wasn’t unheard of for an entire Circle to be searched from top to bottom. In Kirkwall — where every week was greeted by another blood mage — it was downright sensible. Cullen would gladly lead the search himself if it would give them some peace of mind. But it sounded like something in Orsino had finally broken under the strain. A final straw.

A trickle of fear raised Cullen’s heartrate faster than it should have been. He had no idea how either of them would react to this latest conflcit. He accelerated to a ground-eating pace. Identical buildings rushed by in a haze of sharp turns and back alleys. The fastest route Cullen knew, down streets that most citizens avoided. Bandits couldn’t have stopped the pair even if they had dared. It still took far too long. Kirkwall’s sprawl stretched a long distance from the Gallows.

The ferryman was startled into action as Cullen and Lovett pounded onto his boat. His movements still seemed too slow as he cast off from the jetty.

The Gallows cut a blacker shape in the indigo night sky, limned by the faintest traces of moonlight. They approached that looming edifice far too slowly for Cullen’s liking. For once, he cursed the isolation of the Gallows. He rocked gently back and forwards as the ferry forged across the bay, as if the movements could urge them on a little faster. The ferryman recognised the urgency and did what he could to coax a little more speed out of his craft.

When the ferry drifted into place at the Gallows docks, Cullen didn’t even wait for the gangplank to be lowered. He vaulted over the side onto the jetty below, absorbing the shuddering impact smoothly. Lovett dropped into place beside him. Cullen instinctively reached up a hand to loosen his sword in its sheath. _Just in case_. _Maker. Just in case._

Lovett trailed silently behind Cullen as he marched into Templar Hall’s internal courtyard. The torch-lit space was quiet, aside from the gently patter of salutes from the templar guards stationed at the entrances.

He slowed down a fraction. Meredith and Orsino’s arguments were infamous for their volume. But he couldn’t hear a thing.

He threw an irritated look over his shoulder to Lovett. “This isn’t some poor attempt at a joke is it?” he snapped.

Lovett’s brow furrowed in confusion. “It’s not. I swear on Andraste’s pyre,” he protested. “I’d kick myself out of the Order for a joke in such poor taste.”

Cullen stalked into the commanding officers’ corridor. Meredith’s door was locked tight. There was no sound of movement, but he rapped sharply and waited a moment. She wasn’t in. He turned to push open Orsino’s door. Empty. Curfew would begin soon, so that wasn’t unexpected. But it didn’t seem right given what Lovett had said. He swept back out into the the courtyard.

A templar guard took a cautious step forwards. “I assume you’re looking for Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino, Sers. They left for the chantry not long ago.” He nodded to Lovett. “Not too long after you left, Knight-Lieutenant. Apparently the Champion came by soon after. She’s already been sent that way.”

Cullen exhaled. “They went to beg the Grand Cleric to intercede, I assume? She has to take a side.”

The templar shrugged. “I didn’t dare ask.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But the First Enchanter had a decent number of the Circle’s senior mages with him when they left. Under heavy guard, of course. I got the impression that-”

For a brief second, Cullen went blind. A brilliant flash of light brighter than daylight filled the courtyard. Lurid red morphed to white almost too quickly to recognise the transition. He blinked reflexively, but the light cut straight through the paltry protection of his eyelids.

The glare faded as quickly as it had arrived. The torchlight was left impossibly dim after that brief, dazzling radiance.

There was no time to recover, no time to even consider what could have caused the flash. Cullen’s ears popped. The world went deathly silent, with a feeling like an indrawn breath. It was as if all sound in the world had cut out in an instant. No breeze, no omnipresent hiss of the sea, no shuffles and clanks of armour. The darkest corners of the deep roads couldn’t have had a more oppressive silence. His heartbeat seemed impossibly loud.

He made a move for his sword. As if there was a way to defend himself against light and silence.

A split second later, and the unnatural stillness was replaced by a wave of sound ferocious enough to be a solid force. It carried with it the taste of magic that set the lyrium in Cullen’s blood boiling. Every templar in the courtyard staggered under the combined assault.

The torches snuffed out in an instant.  A narrow window overlooking the courtyard shattered. Then another. Whatever sound they made was lost in the howl.

A chunk of masonry from the battlements above shattered only a handful of feet away from where Cullen stood. Deafened by the wave of sound, its plummeting fall might as well have been silent

The impossibly loud sound cut out. The world suddenly seemed too quiet without that all-encompassing roar of raw fury. With the torchlight gone, the dark courtyard was lit only by a dim pinkish afterglow that reflected balefully off their armour.

The templar in front of Cullen mouthed something. It took a moment for Cullen to realise that the man had been speaking aloud. Utter silence was replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He shook his head to clear it and lifted tentative hands to his ears. He breathed a brief prayer of thanks as his fingertips came away free of blood.

“What in the Maker’s name was that?” Lovett murmured, almost reverentially. No other reaction was possible.

“Definitely not from the Gallows,” Cullen replied. His voice sounded oddly flat and muted in the wake of the unnatural roar. “It must have come from-” He cut off and sprinted towards the ramparts. _Maker preserve us_. _From Kirkwall._


	33. Vengeance and Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I somehow thought I would get the entirety of the finale into one chapter. Turns out that was completely impossible without it being more than two or three times the length of my average chapter wordcount.

****

**12th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

With the rains gone, the air had been left crystal clear right up to distant cliffs of Hightown. Cullen would rather the city had still been masked in a grey shroud of rain. He blinked, unwilling to accept what his eyes were telling him. The sky above Hightown was marred by shafts of brilliant red that pierced hundreds of feet into the air and cast a baleful glow over the buildings below. Eerily beautiful ribbons of light danced just below the thin cloud layer, transitioning through shades of red to fade-touched green and back again. Whatever had happened in Hightown had scarred the very sky.

His eyes tracked relentlessly downward to the source of the glare. Every one of Hightown’s bristling sea of towers was illuminated by the vivid light. With one glaring exception. The chantry was gone. Not just hidden against the darkness of night sky. Gone. Annihilated. Whatever foul magic had left its mark in the sullenly roiling clouds had obliterated the heart of the city. An enduring feature of the Kirkwall skyline had been wiped from existence. The Qunari had explosives, but this? Never in his years as a templar had he heard of magic that could level a monumental edifice like the chantry in a single blast.

His knees buckled and he had to catch hold of the ramparts in front of him. Kirkwall was too distant for it to be more than imagination, but he could swear he heard screams. Tragedy had struck. Again. He found himself shaking his head in denial, as if this was all just another cruel and convoluted vision from the demon.

“Maker preserve us.” He closed his eyes in prayer. An afterimage of the unnatural light burned behind his eyelids. It hardly mattered that it wasn’t the searing purple glow of the prison that plagued his sleep.

More footsteps pounded up the stairs to the ramparts and drew to an abrupt halt as Kirkwall came into view. There were a few hissed curses. A few muttered prayers that tapered off into stunned silence.

Rough stone scraped under Cullen’s gauntlets as his hand clenched into a fist. Now was not the time for indulging in weakness. His eyes snapped open and he took in the scene of Kirkwall again with a more dispassionate look. Now more than ever he needed the clarity of lyrium, before the old simmering fears broke through. Meredith and whatever forces she had taken with her were somewhere out there. Maker willing, he’d been wrong in his assumption that they’d gone to the chantry.

As he surveyed the distant city, the first hints of flame flickered into hungry life. This at least was a natural light, if no less destructive. Combined with the unnatural light from above, the city’s sprawl was lit brightly enough to rival the light of the moons.

A quick succession of tiny bursts of flame erupted from somewhere in Hightown. It was closely followed by a flicker of lightning that clutched for the sky above. That brought Cullen back to solid ground. Unnatural explosions that wiped out entire buildings were outside anyone’s experience. The undisguised use of combat magic in the city was something that they were more than capable of handling. Break the problem down into simple tasks. Deal with the simpler problems first. Maker knew they were in trouble if the flagrant use of magic in the city streets felt like a _simple_ problem. Then worry about what in the Andraste’s name had happened in Hightown. That was what the Order was here for, after all.

He spun on a heel and looked over the templars who had raced up to join him on the ramparts. A handful of brave off-duty Knights-Templar lurked in the stairwell, just out of view of the senior officers who stood gaping out towards the city. A whole spectrum of emotion twisted their faces, right from blank shock to nauseated horror. They needed orders. A purpose to mask the helplessness.

There was at least one minor positive. There would be no delay in getting where they were needed. Near every off-duty Knight-Lieutenant was here already. For templars sensitive to magic, the blast was better than any alarm bell. He’d be stunned if a single templar in Kirkwall had remained asleep or unaware.

“Ser June,” he snapped out.

She startled out of a daze and saluted. “Ser?”

“Muster your men at the Kirkwall docks. We’re needed in the city.” He paused and scanned the other Knights-Lieutenant on the ramparts. “Where is Ser Conrad? I need the First Kirkwall Platoon too.”

Karellian sidled to the front. “The Knight-Commander took him and Karras and most of the men under their command with her when she went after the First Enchanter, Ser.” He looked grimly towards the scar that marked Kirkwall’s sky as he spoke. “They all would have been up there, to beg the Grand Cleric’s intervention.” There was an obvious unspoken addition to his words. _Dead. All dead._

Cullen winced and crushed another flicker of dread. Two of the platoons most well versed in handling hostile magic might just have been lost in one fell swoop. Never mind the possible loss of their Knight-Commander at a time of crisis.

“Ser Karellian. Ready your men and join Ser June at the Kirkwall docks.”

That left no more off-duty forces, with Karras and Conrad gone. He cursed internally that so many were on suspension. Whoever he took now would strip the Circle of on-duty templars and leave it dangerously low on forces.

As if to punctuate his thoughts, another cluster of magical flares coloured the air. This time, they erupted somewhere in Lowtown, too far to have been from the same source as before. The burst caught on a building’s rooftop and sent tongues of flame licking into the air. There really wasn’t any choice. He needed every templar he could get if the city was under attack by unknown magical forces.

“Ser Parrist, I want a skeleton force left on the main entrances. Prepare the rest of your men to join me in Kirkwall.”

Parrist looked briefly stunned. His brow furrowed and he blushed an angry red. “My men aren’t-”

“Your men are templars, trained for precisely such situations,” Cullen snapped. He waved a hand towards the livid pillar of light and met the gaze of every templar on the ramparts with an icy one of his own. “There is a real _magical_ threat to the city. Our duty as templars is quite clear. I will not have any one of you shirking that duty when we are needed most. Any refusal to obey orders now will be taken as mutiny and handled accordingly. Am I understood?”

There were alternately shaky and crisp salutes from every templar on the ramparts, from the lurking Knights-Templar right up to the Knights-Lieutenant.

“Good.” His eyes narrowed as everyone remained frozen. “Move.”

Cullen scanned the distant city again as the templars filed away as quickly as they could. Judging by the increasing number of magical traces that lit the sky, more than a few mages had taken the explosion as a call to arms. There were enough bursts of magic across the city now to justify needing as many templars as could send into the city. It went without saying that the Chantry had enemies. It could be an army from Tevinter. It could be an alliance of every blood mage in Kirkwall. It could be a united pack of abominations, if such a thing could exist. It could even have been Orsino and the Circle mages that had apparently accompanied him. They’d have to manage, whatever the situation was.

His gaze was drawn inexorably to Hightown’s butchered skyline. There was no point in fooling himself. With the chantry gone, every senior Chantry figure in Kirkwall had just been murdered in one fell swoop. _If the Knight-Commander was caught in the blast too_ _…_ Knights-Captain were expected to be ready to replace their Knight-Commander in times of need. That wasn’t the issue. Cullen shuddered as he realised that he might have been left as the most senior Andrastian authority figure in the city on the verge of crisis. Better to neutralise the magical attack before he started worrying about that unpleasant thought.

~~~~

There was a crowd gathered at the docks when Cullen and his force landed. A mass of desperate and frantic people pushed up to where they disembarked. It was impossible to tell whether they were pleading for help or trying to force their way onto the ferries for the dubious safety offered by the Gallows and its isolation. For these people, the fears instilled by the Chantry weren’t abstract concepts any more. For all that Kirkwall was plagued by abominations and maleficarum, the majority of citizens weren’t unlucky enough to cross paths with any form of magic at all. The Order ran themselves ragged to make that true. This couldn’t have been a more obvious proof to anyone with eyes that there was reason to fear. Of course, the only time people came to the Order for help was when they feared for their lives.

The crowd were forced backwards as the templars disembarked and began to form up in crisp lines on the docks. A man clutched at Cullen’s arm. “Andraste be praised, Ser Knight,” he babbled. “What’s happen-”

A woman pushed him out of the way and forced herself in front of Cullen. “It’s the mages,” she spat. She absently raised a hand to her head. Her palm came away bloody, but she hardly seemed to notice. “They’ve plagued this city with their curse for years.” She pointed a shaking finger at the Gallows. “They need to be killed for this crime against the Maker and his bride.”

Cullen caught her arm and redirected her to one side. He raised his voice to carry over the seething crowd that had begun to grow at an unpleasantly rapid pace. “Please, return to your homes until it’s safe.” He lowered his voice to give quiet orders to Karellian. “I need a squad detached to keep people away from the ferries. No one apart from members of the Templar Order are permitted to enter the Gallows until this chaos is resolved. We need to prevent a massacre.”

Karellian nodded grimly and barked out crisp orders. The milling crowd was pushed back none too gently until the templar force stood in an island of calm. The desperate had been forced out of the way now, running back to their homes or the nearest approximation of safety. It left angry clusters of people milling in the shadows beyond the torchlight that illuminated the jetties. Bloodthirsty mutters and whispers drifted to his ears, twisted in the breeze that carried off the bay until he couldn’t guess whether they’d been spoken by the crowd or his templars.

“Disperse,” he barked out with a touch of anger. “Whatever happened, it did not originate from the Gallows.”

The final few faded away into the alleys. Or just far enough to leave them out of sight of the templars. Cullen hadn’t the time to worry about that.

“Sers Karellian and June, north and south routes to Hightown. Ser Parrist and I will take the central route. We will rendezvous at the chantry.” His voice hardened. “Neutralise any magical threats.”

It felt eerily like the Qunari attack three years ago. Only this time, the enemies lurking in shadowed alleyways might be a blood mage or abomination.

The docks were a quiet part of Kirkwall at night. The buildings that loomed to either side were mostly warehouses rather than residential. Even so, a few clusters of dockworkers gathered in open spaces, heads tilted up to stare mutely at the ripples of light playing across the sky. They scuttled out of the way as the templars marched up the main thoroughfare.

The streets become a little busier as the reached the first districts of Lowtown. A few worried citizens braved the nighttime streets and the risk of brigands to watch the skies. Even the least devout couldn’t fail to be horrified. A handful dared to ask questions of the column of templars, and were instead directed home. With magic attacks erupting across the city, it had to be only matter of time before the danger reached this far. The rest disappeared out of view with aggrieved backwards glances that were painfully easy to read. _You should have stopped this. Isn_ _’t that the whole point of the Templar Order?_

Cullen stopped cold as they jogged into a residential square. Where most streets had been sparsely populated, this enclosed space was milling with people. Muted sobs and muttered comments of disbelief carried to him, blended together until it sounded like the ever-present wash of the waves against the Gallows. There were a few gasps as the templar force was spotted. Hands pointed towards a building at the opposite side of the square.

“You have to help!” a voice called out. “We can’t get in!”

A ragged hole gaped in the second story of a building at the square’s periphery. A chunk of masonry at least as tall as he was had punched right through the thick stone wall. _Who in Kirkwall has a siege engine?_ he thought inanely. A flicker of pinkish lightning played across the ragged hole with an angry crackle and forced the small crowd back. The thin pall of dust that hung in the air softened the magical discharge to an almost mellow glow that highlighted shell shocked faces in an actinic glare.

“Maker, is that-?” Parrist cut off, a look of sick fascination on his face. Shards of shattered glass and broken stone crunched underneath their boots as they took a few more steps into the square.

“Andraste give me strength. A fragment from the chantry,” Cullen stated disbelievingly. He shook off a stupefied stare. “Check inside for injuries. And get these people off the street. I don’t want any civilians to get caught by that discharge.”

Cullen paced restlessly as the square emptied of citizens and filled with templars. As if things needed to get worse, now there was the very real possibility of widespread damage to the city from the explosion itself. The chantry was a huge building. He shuddered. Half the city could have been devastated if fragments had reached this far out from Hightown. And civilians didn't have the resistance to magical harm that templars did.

Parrist shook his head grimly as he exited the building a few minutes later, magical discharge diffusing harmlessly across his skin. “Dead, Ser. May they rest by the Maker’s side.” He spat off to one side. “Magic is a curse on this city.”

Six years of worsening trouble. Cullen found it hard to disagree. “We have to move.”

Hightown was where the greatest need was. They’d return to more distant areas later. He just had to hope that the already thin veil in Kirkwall hadn’t been damaged enough to allow spirits to possess the dead, and that the clusters of magical attacks weren’t yet widespread.

Reluctantly, he forged ahead further into Kirkwall’s maze of streets. The buildings here were marked with the occasional scars of magical damage. An opportunistic maleficar, taking the chance to exercise their magic. No more citizens gathered to stare at the sky or plea for help from the passing templars anymore. Not with a hostile mage somewhere about. Cullen split his force in two and ordered them to run parallel tracks in the hopes that it increased the chances of at least one of them finding the maleficar.

The thoroughfare narrowed until they could only move a few abreast. Residences towered on either side, windows illuminated by the warm glow of lamplight. More than a few were snuffed out as the sound of armoured footsteps echoed down the street. A head peeked out from a door, question forming on his lips.

“Back inside,” Cullen ordered. “Stay safe.”

The door slammed shut and a frankly ridiculous number of locks snapped. Cullen shook his head helplessly. Nothing in his training or private reading had told him how to handle a magical crisis that crippled an entire city. They needed the guard to handle the citizens. At least people had known better than to wander about on the streets during the Qunari invasion.

A fragment of stone skittered away from Cullen’s boot. He glanced up. A block of shattered masonry from the chantry had embedded itself in the third storey of the building just ahead of them. Dust trickled down and filled the air with a thin brown haze. It looked dangerously precarious. Too much to hope that the building had been uninhabited. Cullen grimaced and pointed the damage out to Parrist.

“We need to chec-”

The air filled with the acrid copper taste of blood magic. The block of stone crunched out of the building and hurtled through the air. It slammed into the middle of Cullen’s force and crushed three templars beneath its bulk. There were exclamations of surprise as the rest found themselves cut off.

Cullen whipped his head around, scanning the narrow windows and tall buildings. Their assailant was nowhere to be seen. His muscles tensed in apprehension. They were far too enclosed here.

There was a wet coughing sound from somewhere above. Cullen was nearly floored as a body hurled itself out of the hole in the building. The garbled sounds as it flailed for purchase were the all-too familiar gurgles of a possessed corpse. The corpse lurched to its feet and almost toppled. One leg was nothing better than a crushed and bloody slab of meat. Another corpse splattered onto the floor just behind it with a brutal crunch that forced an involuntary cringe from Cullen.

The first corpse managed to pull itself over and swiped at Cullen. Eyes that had just begun to mist over in death stared blindly at him from above a nose that had been crushed flat.

Against any trained warrior — let alone templars trained to handle them — the only advantage a corpse had was strength in numbers. He’d seen far too many of the recently dead to be phased. Cullen spitted the corpse on his blade before decapitating it in a clean sweep. Parrist might have spent most of his career as the templar equivalent of a guardsman, but his own attack on the second corpse was almost as smooth.

The clash of blades on shields sounded from behind Cullen. He snapped about. Behind the blockage in the road, the remainder of the squad were engaged in desperate combat with each other.

“Mind control,” he hissed disgustedly. It was obvious which of the group had resisted the blood mage’s influence. They were the ones who did their best to defend, rather than flailing wildly.

Cullen scanned the road behind them. The blood mage had to be somewhere in sight to exert their control.

The stench of blood magic strengthened. The stones in front of Cullen bubbled and hissed. A fiery arm pushed itself out of the stone as if it was no more solid than water. The molten body of a rage demon followed close behind. The almost physical force of its infernal heat forced Cullen back a step. He raised his shield to divert a burst of crackling flame that leapt from the demon’s palm.

Parrist staggered back as if he too had been forced back by the heat. But then he stumbled back again, his eyes wide with fear. Cullen cursed and fended off a swipe from the demon’s claws. The raging heat shimmered in the air and cracked the red enamel bordering Cullen’s shield. He slashed a sharp downward strike that cut a brilliantly glowing line in the demon’s skin. Fat drops of molten liquid spattered onto the floor, tiny flames licking at the air. Another slash intersected a swipe from the demon and sheared its arm off at the elbow. As the demon reeled, Cullen followed up with a stab that pierced through its throat. He tugged upwards, and the demon’s head exploded in a shower of molten globules.

There wasn’t yet time to process Parrist’s cowardice. Already, a few templars had fallen. Dead or incapacitated by their fellows. He rapidly scanned the windows around them. Too narrow to give a good view. That left only one option. With a sharp bark, he called over the few caught with him on the opposite side. They vaulted over the block of masonry and dodged through the conflict. Miraculously, they managed to slip through unmolested, their fellows making way as best they could.

His eyes narrowed with triumph. There, in the shelter of a doorway. The shadow darted away, sending a barrage of icy shards of crystallised blood hurtling through the air to shatter against armour and walls. He sprinted off in pursuit, splashing through the thawing puddles of watery blood left behind. The air behind the figure warped and twisted. A cluster of shades coalesced like solid, shrieking pieces of the night. There was a crash and piercing scream from behind him as a templar was caught in the tangled web of a rune trap fuelled by blood magic.

“Two for the shades,” he barked. “The rest with me.”

He dodged an opportunistic slash from a shade and countered with one of his own that cut a gaping hole in the shade’s side. Ichor dripped to the ground and a rattling hiss deafened one ear. He withdrew his blade as he passed before it was trapped in the demon’s shadowy body.

He broke free of the cluster of shades. The distant mage drew into view was revealed as a woman in swirling robes. A little further away now, but not quite out of range yet. The street was briefly lit by the brilliant flash of a smite. The figure stumbled and fell into a wall with a sharp bark of pain. There was a flash of steel against a palm. Fat ribbons of glistening blood whipped through the air. They tripped one templar and grabbed another in an iron grip. The ribbon pulsated grotesquely as the blood mage hunted for the arteries beneath armour and chainmail. The templar’s choking was cut off as his throat was crushed. But there were too many for the mage to take at once. In a last ditch effort, a shower of blood burst out from her in every direction, splattering against every surface in view. It hissed where it hit their armour, and would have burned through skin like acid, infecting the blood beneath until the victim was incinerated from the inside out in screaming agony. Sword blades whistled through the air. The scent of blood magic cut out and the mage slumped. DOwn the street, there were shouted exclamations of relief and disgust as her hold over templar minds disappeared.

Cullen crouched to look at he dead mage. Even in the nighttime darkness, it was obvious she wore the robes of a Circle mage. “An Enchanter,” he muttered incredulously. He shook his head. Not the most dangerous blood mage they’d ever faced, but she’d wiped out more than a few templars. That level of skill with blood magic meant months, even years of practice.

Parrist walked into view, looking vaguely green. “It’s over, Ser.” At the very end, his voice raised in a question. His expression turned a little more nauseous at the sight of the dead bodies.

Cullen scowled. “You can be sure I will be addressing your cowardice once this is over, Knight-Lieutenant Parrist.” There were some awkward coughs from behind him as the remaining Knights-Templar attempted to pretend they hadn’t just heard the charge against their superior. “For now, we need to keep moving.”

“Ser,” Parrist acknowledged with a salute. The green tinge to his face warred with a few angry spots of colour.

Cullen reformed his force with a final glance for the street and the telltale streaks of blood that characterised conflict with a blood mage. Once again, they couldn’t even spare the time to clear the bodies.

It wasn’t the only resistance they encountered. At the midpoint through Lowtown, a pack of shades formed out of the cobblestones, right in the heart of their ranks. Those were cut down more easily. An apostate made the mistake of casting a few hexes on them that slid right off the templars. The apostate was silenced and cleansed of magic before he was even aware that his spells had failed to have any effect.

Every street brought them a little closer to Hightown. The gaps between buildings and narrow slices of sky revealed the occasional glimpse of the slowly-fading scars that marked the sky and cast a gentle light over the dark corners of the city. They hadn’t even reached Hightown yet, but every street was scarred a little more, until devastation was commonplace. They came across the occasional unlucky soul caught by fragments of debris too. He stopped where they could to provide assistance, but there was only so much that could be done. They’d need every templar, every guard, and every able-bodied citizen to help the city recover. A collapsed building on one street, its neighbours leaning precariously into a gaping hole from which a clump of shades emerged. A store melted into slag by magic on another. Cullen diverted his force to follow the charred bodies that made a gory trail. The abomination that had caused that fragment of chaos was found a few streets further on, incinerating another building seemingly at random. They had to leave another templar body behind there, next to the warped and battered corpse.

In the empty market square littered with small fragments of stone, Cullen drew them to a halt. The echo of booted feet marching at a steady clip carried from a street heading towards the first set of stairways that led up Hightown. Cullen gestured for attention. Apostates didn’t tend to march around in full armour, but caution never did any harm. Armoured figures drew into view, illuminated by the faint light from the skies above.

Familiar steel armour. Familiar bright robes. Relief weakened Cullen’s muscles for a moment. Survivors. There might be reason for hope after all.

“Knight-Commander,” he called out. “You survived. Is the Grand Cleric…?” His heart sank as he spoke. With so many concerns, he hadn’t even thought about the templars of the chantry garrison. There was no chance they had survived the explosion. Of all the templars he knew, he had expected it to be Ambris who managed the rare achievement of surviving to enjoy her retirement.

Meredith waved off his concern, as if surviving an explosion was something she did every day. Blood and demon ichor marked her breastplate and those of the templars with her, but she seemed miraculously unharmed.

“Dead,” she snapped bitterly. “The chantry is gone. Destroyed by the vile scheming of mage. I knew that magic had corrupted this city, but I had not realised how deep the stain penetrated.” She cast a disgusted look at the ribbons of light that marred the visible slice of the night sky. “There is only one answer, and with the Grand Cleric gone, the decision falls to me. I have invoked the Right of Annulment.”

His heart sank to somewhere level with his boots. _Maker. Not another Circle_. _What did I do wrong this time?_ He shuddered as his mind filled with horrific images of another Circle painted in blood.

He clasped his hands behind his back to mask the tremble. “The First Enchanter and the mages who accompanied him caused this then?” It was impossible to believe, but invoking the Right of Annulment would be the only response to such an obvious sign of corruption in the highest echelons of the Circle.

“He did not.” Meredith seemed almost insulted by what should have been a positive statement. Cullen blinked in confusion. “It was the apostate Anders,” she finished with disgust.

If his heart could have sunk lower, it would have. “No,” he whispered. They had been warned. If he had only moved a little faster, looked a little harder, chosen to bypass Meredith’s refusal. He shook off the seething guilt with monumental effort. Berating himself for his failings had not worked before and it was not appropriate now, when there was still work to be done. “Then why the Right of Annulment, Knight-Commander? It should be a last resort, and the Circle is still under out control.”

Cullen flicked a quick glance over the templars trailing Meredith. Far too few given that both Karras and Conrad had accompanied her. And no sign of Orsino or his mages. _Has she started the annulment already?_ he thought with mild trepidation.

“The people of Kirkwall will call for blood.” She replied calmly, with an open hand towards the wreckage in the market square. “Whatever you have seen in Lowtown, I can assure you, the damage is far worse in Hightown. This crime cannot go unanswered.”

The doubt that filled Cullen’s mind was like a bath of icy water. “Then the apostate will answer with his life for this atrocity. I would wield the blade myself,” he snapped angrily. With an effort, he reigned his voice in, mindful of the templar audience. “But with all due respect, I fear that there is no justification to be found in annulling the entire Circle for his actions. The Circle is innocent. ” The words surprised him even as he said them.

“Innocent?! Surely you of all people cannot believe that any mage is ‘innocent’, Cullen. You have seen that Kirkwall’s Circle is a hive of maleficarum, just as Ferelden’s Circle was in the past. The destruction of the chantry is simply an external indicator of the corruption that seethes beneath the surface.” She turned on him, voice boiling with raw fury. The world seemed to narrow down to her eyes and the reflected light of the explosion that gave them an unnatural reddish glint. “Do not question me on this!”

Cullen took an involuntary step back and raised a hand in apology. Something in her voice stirred a buried fear. “As ordered, Knight-Commander.”

“Excellent.” She looked across the square towards where the docks lay. “Orsino and his mages fled. I have templars hunting the stragglers. The rest of us must bring the Right of Annulment to completion.”

 _Your duty is as an unfeeling blade,_ he reminded himself firmly. _The Right of Annulment is simply the grim culmination of that._ The thought wasn’t especially reassuring. After all, he hadn’t joined the Order to be an executioner, particularly when he hadn’t yet seen proof that the Circle was irredeemable. He brutally shoved his disquiet to one side. He’d been given an order by his commanding officer. Better to focus on facts.

“I brought two other platoons of templars into the city in response to the explosion, Knight-Commander. The Gallows is currently manned by a bare minimum force.”

“A reasonable decision, but they must be recalled,” she responded curtly. She dispatched a handful of messengers from the waiting templars and turned back to Cullen, a resolute look on her face. “The Circle is the greatest threat to Kirkwall by far. Once it has been purged, we can cleanse the remainder of the city.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” he replied reluctantly. Maker willing, there weren’t too many maleficarum taking this as an opportunity to creep out of the shadows. As far as he was concerned, that was the greater threat.

She nodded with grim satisfaction, indifferent to the concern that furrowed his brow. “Then we march.”

~~~~

The Gallows was an ominous slice of black across the dark waters of the bay, too far to be illuminated by the unnatural light in the sky. For once, the forbidding bulk of the fortress seemed entirely appropriate.

There was no sign of Orsino or his followers anywhere on Kirkwall’s docks, but the single squad left to keep citizens away from the ferries were dead. There was no need to guess the cause of their deaths. Mundane weapons certainly couldn’t crush armour like paper or leave shards of ice embedded in the eye-slits of helms. A few ferries were missing, but the rest were undamaged. Destroying them would have further isolated the Circle, but perhaps Orsino knew that they could never endure a siege.

Cullen’s head jerked up as a faint boom carried across the water. Bright flickers of light lit up the Gallows and cast sharp-edged shadows against the walls. A cold trickle of realisation wound through the steely resolve he had pulled around himself. It should have been obvious. If the templars had felt the magic carried by the blast, it would have been even more apparent to the mages in the Circle. With Orsino carrying news of the Right of Annulment ahead of him, it was as good as a call-to-arms for the mages. And there were far too few templars to defend the Gallows against a concerted assault from within.

Meredith had spotted it too. The intermittent flashes were impossible to miss. “We cannot wait for the others to arrive,” she marched up the gangplank of the nearest ferry. “We must sail to the Gallows now.”

Cullen barked a string of orders to marshal the force following them. She was right. He certainly didn’t want to stand and watch whilst templars suffered and died. He boarded the ferry behind the last of the templars and joined Meredith by the prow. “Do we have a plan of attack, Knight-Commander?”

It was much simpler to focus on the logistics than the morals of what there were soon to do. He surreptitiously watched Meredith as she scanned the Gallows. It wasn’t madness that furrowed her brow, just icy determination even stronger than the resolve he had wrapped around his own doubts.

The silence stretched. “Knight-Commander?”

She looked absently towards him. “The Right of Annulment is perhaps the simplest and gravest of tasks entrusted to the Templar Order. Kirkwall will only be safe when every mage is dead.”

Cullen shuddered. The ghost of his past self seemed to hover over her shoulder. He’d said much the same, once.

He turned away to watch their approach into the Gallows and the tiny pinpricks of light that marked the docks. Seventeen times in the seven hundred years before the Dragon age. They’d studied every occurrence of the Right of Annulment during training, right from the very first in Nevarra when an abomination had slaughtered every inhabitant of the Perendale Circle. From the sordid to the justifiable. Every templar had to know the Right of Annulment’s grave legacy. And now he had been present for two more in less than ten years, even if it had been revoked in Kinloch Hold. _Not a record I’m particular proud of holding._ No doubt the next generation of recruits would be taught this invocation of the Right too. He was enduringly grateful that Lovett had known better than to suggest that Cullen might add his own experience to lessons on the history of the Right.

A superstitious man might believe himself cursed. Meredith called it an inevitable sign of the times, necessitating the ultimate act of mercy. Cullen was less certain. The persistent doubt plaguing his every decision was infuriating. A return to the certainty he’d once held would have been nice, if it hadn’t been so blatantly obvious that that certainty had been misplaced. _Blessed are the peacekeepers_ had never felt as empty as it did today.

He stifled a growl of frustration. He didn’t agree with invoking the Right of Annulment in response to the actions of a lone apostate. But not liking the orders he had been given wasn’t enough to justify relieving her of duty. If any templar could pick and choose which orders to follow, the entire Templar Order would collapse. The Right had certainly been approved in the past for less. And so there _still_ wasn’t enough to prove without a doubt that she had taken leave of her senses.

The sound of the ferry clunking against the jetty startled Cullen out of his thoughts. Magic almost saturated the air around them, even as far from the Gallows as the docks. Faint traces of the lyrium song humming from up ahead suggested that they weren’t too late to apprehend Orsino.

Meredith led the charge up the main stairway into the Gallows’ courtyard. Dead templars sprawled all the way up the flight of steps. The skeleton force of templars left behind hadn’t made it easy, but they could hardly have expected an attack to come from outside the Gallows. Cullen felt a surge of guilt. He knew he’d been faced with an impossible task, but he’d pulled templars out of the Gallows and unwittingly left this skeleton force to die. They hadn’t been caught completely unaware, at least. A few crumpled bodies in the bright robes of Circle mages joined those of their former guardians.

They broke out into the courtyard. Here, the battle still raged. Mage and templar corpses were scattered in a trail leading up to the Circle’s main entrance. The only surviving templars left edged warily towards Orsino and a group of Enchanters. Considering that the most strenuous task courtyard guards handled most days was inquisitive visitors, it was a brave display of faithfulness to their duty.

The mages retreated up the stairs to the darkened entrance. Orsino twirled his staff. One templar was forced backwards by a cone of force. He flailed as his foot met empty air and he tumbled down the stairs to land in a heap at the bottom, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. A bolt of pure force — almost invisible in the darkness — whistled out of Orsino’s staff and sent the other flying to land with a crunch of snapping bones halfway across the courtyard.

The broken body skidded to a stop at the feet of an all-too familiar set of figures. Cullen reached a hand up for his sword with a grim scowl. Little surprise that Hawke would be here at the very heart of trouble. But he paused with his fingers wrapped about the hilt. Instead of turning against the rapidly approaching templars, she raised empty hands and called up to the retreating mages.

“First Enchanter!”

Orsino halted at the top of the stairway, staff held defensively in front of him. Latent magic hummed in the air.

“Stay back,” he called out in response. “I don’t want to fight you.”

Cullen blinked in surprise. Despite the years of cautious alliance and trust, he would have expected an apostate to side with mages. Impossible to believe that they might have one less enemy in this dark time.

Meredith stalked into the courtyard past the scattered bodies. The main portcullis clattered shut behind them.

“And here you are, Orsino,” she snapped. “Did you think you could run fast enough to escape?”

Orsino lowered his staff and descended back into the courtyard. “Let us speak, Meredith,” he demanded, “Before this battle destroys the city you claim to protect!”

Meredith moved closer with a confident stride until only a few feet separated her and Orsino. Two sides. The cold reason of lyrium and the controlled passion of magic.

A swarm of expression crossed Orsino’s face as he looked over the impassive templar reinforcements that had begun to fill the courtyard. He knew he was likely facing his executioners unless — by some miracle — someone saw reason. Mournful faded to disgust as he met Cullen’s gaze. Cullen kept his expression impassive. Any attempt at apology would have been less than meaningless. With that look, six years of working together was burnt to ashes. Orsino’s gaze slipped away.

Meredith’s smile was all teeth as she responded to Orsino’s plea. “I will entertain a surrender, nothing more. Speak, if you have something to say.”

Cullen settled himself behind Meredith’s shoulder. The image of a faithful second in command, even if he didn’t feel it. His eyes flickered over to Hawke. She had settled herself at the exact midpoint between the two groups and made no move for the staff at her back. He exchanged a curt nod with her and dropped his hand from the hilt of his sword. One less potential threat to worry about.

“Revoke the Right of Annulment, Meredith,” Orsino appealed, “Before this goes too far. Imprison us if you must. Search the tower. I will even help you.” He took a few steps closer. A clear sign of trust that put him within reach of her blade, and more than close enough to neutralise his magic. “But do not kill us all for an act we did not commit.”

Cullen shook his head minutely. Too late for that by far. Orsino of all people must recognise that Meredith would not back down from this. Not with the chantry gone and the proven threat of blood magic in the Circle.

“The Grand Cleric is dead, killed by a mage. The people will demand retribution, and I will give it to them,” Meredith responded dispassionately. Orsino turned his back on Meredith and paced back to the support of his fellow mages as she spoke. A tentative proposal of a return to something like normality withdrawn. Meredith’s expression was indifferent as she continued to speak. “Your offer is commendable, Orsino, but it comes too late.”

Hawke raised her voice, drawing Meredith and Orsino’s attention to her. “We can still prevent this, before you both tear Kirkwall apart.”

“It is already torn apart,” Meredith replied curtly. “We cannot divert from our path.”

Orsino shrugged resignedly. “So what is it to be, Meredith? Do we fight here?”

“Go,” she replied with a shake of her head. “Prepare your people. The rest of the Order is already crossing the harbour.”

Orsino backed away a step. Then another. Any lingering willingness for cooperation faded from his expression. “This isn’t over,” he snapped, before retreating into the Circle’s dubious protection. The portcullis slammed shut. A tendril of magic crackled through the air. The iron bars glowed with a brief flare of infernal heat, warping the metal and sealing the man entrance. The Gallows was a fortress, but there was no escape to be had for any of them now. One way or another, this would be resolved tonight.

With the mages gone, the courtyard fell deathly silent. The neat ranks of templars that had accompanied them across the harbour were unnaturally still and hushed. The tension was palpable. Rumour passed through the ranks as quickly as thought. Every templar would know what was soon to be asked of them, but the fall of a Circle was never discussed at anything more than a whisper. Events at Kinloch Hold even less than that. No one ever expected that they would be the ones called to enact a Right of Annulment.

Cullen looked up at the looming bulk of the Gallows. He had the dubious pleasure of being one of the few templars in Thedas to have experienced the fall of a Circle and come out alive. Unwelcome memories of the past filled in what he expected to face. Over two hundred mages spread over tens of floors. Almost as many templars, caught unaware with no idea of the retribution they were about to face. He saw bright flashes in the few slit windows that pierced the walls of the Circle. The white of lyrium-fuelled templar abilities mixed with the brilliant colours of magic. He flinched. Perhaps the templars still stationed in there had been offered a chance to surrender and refused, or perhaps they’d been attacked without warning. It hardly mattered. This was going to be a massacre, all over again. And he’d failed to prevent it, again.

Meredith stalked over to Hawke and exchanged a few quiet words. Cullen took the opportunity to steal away to an isolated corner of the courtyard. He dropped to one knee and clasped his hands. With eyes squeezed shut he whispered his way through the Canticle of Trials. It could be the Circle Tower all over again. It didn’t matter. Six years of serving every waking minute to compensate for the past had to have counted for something. _Maker. Surely._

_I cannot see the path._

_Perhaps there is only abyss._

_Trembling, I step forward,_

_In darkness enveloped._

He couldn’t force any more of the words out. _The dark abyss, indeed_. _Perhaps we have all stepped in, believing we followed the Maker_ _’s path. Or perhaps we have leapt into that abyss with open eyes._

“I hardly know which is worse,” he muttered.

When he opened his eyes again, he was almost surprised not to see the luridly-lit and gore-stained flagstones of the antechamber in Kinloch Hold. He shot up to a standing position and forced away the icy chill in his bones that had nothing to do with a mild winter evening. He urgently scanned the courtyard for Meredith. Faith in duty. She would have orders for him.

Whatever Meredith had had to say to Hawke, she seemed to come away satisfied. Hawke strode back to her companion. As odd a group of people as it was, Cullen had no interesting in watching them. He presented himself to Meredith with a sharp salute.

“Knight-Commander.”

Meredith gestured Cullen away from the main body of templars. She inclined her head in Hawke’s direction and received a brief acknowledgement in return. “The Champion has remained true to the Order,” she murmured in an undertone. “She agreed to assist in annulling the Circle.”

Cullen blinked, unease momentarily forgotten. “That is … surprising given her status as an apostate. Its good to hear that the Order retains some of its allies.”

“Perhaps.” Her brows lowered, and her tone darkened. “The Champion is a powerful figure in Kirkwall. It would seem she know how best to retain that influence.”

“As you say, Knight-Commander,” Cullen replied neutrally.

Meredith’s gaze flickered over his shoulder to where the first of Karellian’s squads entered the main courtyard, returned from Kirkwall.

“You have experience here. Brief the senior officers. We will clear the Circle floor by floor,” she ordered with a grim smile for Cullen. “You may be quite certain that I will not a allow cowardice or a lack of readiness to cripple our ability to cleanse the Circle of corruption.”

It wasn’t exactly difficult to guess what part of recent history she intended to resurrect with that loaded comment. Cullen covered the reflexive flinch with a salute. “Yes, Knight-Commander.”

He moved away, sparing a glance for where Meredith stood, eyes fixed on the Gallows. Orders for the Right of Annulment really were quite simple. Neutralise every magical threat in a Circle. By leaving him to pass on the orders, she had left the meaning of ‘magical threat’ to his own interpretation. As much repressed resentment as he held for Greagoir, there was something to be learnt from his former mentor. Better to avoid requiring anyone to carry the guilt of executing children on their consciences until they reached the point where lyrium drowned the memories in a haze of blue.

Cullen finished briefing the first batch with a deeply weary exhalation. _How long has it been since I last slept?_ Certainly the previous night’s broken rest hardly seemed to count. It was going to be another long and difficult night. No chance that he’d avoid adding to the memories that plagued his sleep. There were already enough newly forged ones that mixed in amongst those from the Circle Tower. What was it he had said to himself in Greenfell? That the nightmares were a small sacrifice to make for following his calling as a templar. _I was so certain of myself when I arrived in Kirkwall,_ he thought scornfully. _If only I could tell that boy how wrong he had been to have such blind, desperate faith._

The Knights-Corporal he had briefed did a fine job of hiding their opinions one way or the other. They didn’t have quite the same leeway for voicing their own opinions that a Knight-Lieutenant had, and so Cullen was left to guess their attitude from past experience, tailoring the briefings and orders accordingly. Hawke didn’t have quite the same level of practice at maintaining a dutiful façade. She sidled up to him with a smile that was let down by her strained posture as she attempted to lean nonchalantly on her staff.

“When I said we should catch up more, this wasn’t quite what I imagined.” The attempt at levity failed as Cullen stared flatly at her. “The Circle might well be corrupt, but they didn’t do this. Anders wanted to start a war, and Meredith is giving it to him.”

“I know. But I have my orders,” Cullen snapped before attempting to even his tone slightly. “Maybe with you on our side, we can resolve this quickly, and with little bloodshed.” He paused. “But if I may ask, Champion, what possessed you to side with the Order against your own people?”

“Pardon the pun.” She winced suddenly as if realising a joke on possession was perhaps not the best choice for a mage to tell a templar. Her sardonic mask slipped to reveal a serious face and drawn expression that Cullen recognised from mirrors. “There is no ‘my people’. I can’t accept that it will always be ‘us versus them’.” She shuddered and looked towards the lurid red that lit the sky above Hightown, “Anders denied everyone the chance of peace because of his own need for vengeance.”

“Commendable. But that doesn’t answer my question.” _If a Templar Knight-Captain is reluctant, Maker knows an apostate should be,_ he finished silently.

Her furrowed brows lifted, and she met Cullen’s vaguely distrustful stare with a level one of her own. “If I sided against the templars, I’d just be telling the same story that the Chantry has always told. Mages can’t be trusted. Mages and Templars will always stand in opposition. Thrask tried to fix that, but in the end, it was a mage that messed that up, not templars. There are no right sides here.” She shook her head sadly, “At least this way, we can talk things out person to person. Not try and kill each other as a mage facing a templar.”

“You have every reason to hate the Order,” Cullen pointed out cautiously. “For years, I was more than willing to lock you in the Circle. I might have said some thoughtless things, but my beliefs are the same at heart.”

She shrugged. “Preventing apostates from blowing up cities is half the point of the Templar Order. I could hardly blame you for doing what you’re supposed to do. As far as templars go, you’re hardly the worst. I’m glad someone decided to kill that Alrik.” She blinked innocently. “But there are plenty of mages that are just as bad. Everyone has their flaws. Orsino is right though. Your Knight-Commander is unstable.”

He sidestepped addressing the comment directly. “I will do what she commands of me, but something about this isn’t right.” He sighed wearily. For all his efforts, it seemed inevitable now that yet another Circle would fall. His mind drifted back. This time he wouldn’t fail in his duty as a protector. If there were templars trapped in a tower of hostiles mages, they wouldn’t be abandoned. And he wouldn’t demand the unjust execution of mages simply to ease his own dread. “The Right of Annulment was invoked on the Circle in Ferelden when I was younger,” he commented against the lump of old fears that had risen in his throat. Becoming accustomed to the fear wasn’t the same as it not existing. “There, it was justified – demons overran the whole tower. Here ... it’s much harder to tell who’s in the wrong.”

Her cheerful expression drained away. “Something has been wrong here for years.”

Cullen found himself missing Ferelden, the nostalgia made stronger by the familiar strains of the Fereldan accent in her speech. He nodded a brief acknowledgement of her statement. “You must steel yourself for what is to come. We both must.” He offered a brief bleak smile. Only he could predict what they were about to face. “Maker guide you, Champion Hawke.”

She smirked in response and tapped her staff to her chest in an ironic salute. “And you, Knight-Captain Cullen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The finale does pose the question on how Anders rigged the chantry to explode. There was obviously magic involved: conventional explosives don’t look like what happened to the chantry. Given the scale of the destruction, the whole building must have been rigged, which takes time and a lot more planning than 'go distract the Grand Cleric for a minute'. That gives a personal canon that Anders only wanted Hawke for the finishing touches, to implicate them in causing the explosion and force their hand (and avoid any meaningful interference). My Hawke rebels against Anders' narrative. She doesn’t agree with annulling the Circle, but she really does not want to participate in Anders’ mage-templar war.


	34. A Circle Falls

**12th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

A young templar retched painfully in a shadowed corner, just out of view of the rest gathered in the main courtyard. Cullen wouldn’t even have seen him had he not been circling the courtyard to gather up the last stragglers. He winced in sympathy and settled a supportive hand on the templar’s shoulder. He knew all too well how it felt to have your own body rebel against what it saw or what was asked of it.

The templar hauled in a shuddering breath and eased over to sit against the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut and muttered what looked like a prayer. Cullen gave him his space and leaned against the wall beside him, half his attention on the templar’s shaking shoulders, the rest on the templars mustered in perfect ranks in the courtyard.

There were obvious gaps where suspended templars had denuded squads, but it was still a sea of metal that entirely covered the worn flagstones of the courtyard. The last time this many templars had gathered in one place had been during the Qunari invasion. That time, they’d been needed to protect the city. This time, he wasn’t so sure.

The young templar hadn’t really been aware enough to do more than stumble somewhere out of view. When he opened his eyes again, he cast about for the figure who had supported him, ready with an excuse. He looked vaguely panicked when he spotted Cullen leaning against the wall a few feet away.

“Andraste give me strength,” he blurted out. “I’m sorry, Knight-Captain. I’ll do my duty, I just…” he trailed off and dropped his eyes in shame.

“Not a problem, Ser Markus,” Cullen replied evenly. “This is a lot to handle for anyone.”

“Have you ever-” he stopped awkwardly.

“The Right of Annulment was called on Fereldan’s Circle. It was revoked,” Cullen replied curtly. He exhaled and attempted a reassuring tone as the young templar flinched at the raw emotion that leaked through the words. He was hardly to blame for Cullen’s past. “Follow your commanding officer’s lead. Trust that your training and your squadmates will keep you safe. Maker willing, this will be resolved with the bare minimum of bloodshed.”

The templar nodded in mute thanks. He accepted the hand Cullen offered to pull him back up to a standing position. Cullen kept his grip a moment longer. “That you’re not eager is a good sign, not a bad one. Maker guide you in your duty, Knight-Templar Markus.”

When Cullen withdrew, he left a vial of lyrium in the young templar’s hand. Meredith had drawn out the emergency stores from the vaults and ordered it to be distributed. Every templar was to be fortified with an additional ration in anticipation of the long battle ahead. Samson’s face had been a picture of hunger when he’d received his. He hadn’t even waited for Cullen to leave before he drained the vial with a knowing wink.

The templar looked down at the glass vial in his palm, too young to recognise the thirst for what it was yet. He stumbled away, tucking the vial in his pocket and pulling himself together in time to rejoin his squad.

Cullen watched him leave with a sad shake of his head. Knowing what they were soon to face — and knowing his orders — didn’t hide the nausea that clutched at Cullen’s belly for forcing lyrium’s hold a little tighter on every templar in the Gallows. The newest initiates didn’t yet know that lyrium took away as much as it granted, if not more. Even so, he couldn’t in good conscience deny anyone a tool that might help them survive the night.

He had the uncomfortable feeling that there would be many more requests for additional lyrium in the following weeks. Templars desperate for what it offered. If they survived, that was. Storming a tower and executing every mage within? Facing whatever horrors the mages summoned in their desperation, and seeing familiar halls transformed into a charnel house? It would break more than a few templars. Hopefully they would be able to piece themselves back together again afterwards. _Or at least pretend they have, as I do_.

Cullen raised his own vial and watched the glowing blue liquid swirl gently. There was no use denying awareness of the feeling every time he prepared his daily draught. That single vial in his hand raised a thirst that couldn’t be answered by all the water in Thedas. He could swear he heard the melody already.

A familiar figure sauntered out of the shadows of a pillar. Samson’s teeth flashed in the darkness.

“I’m happy to take the vial off you if you’re not interested, Ser.” The shadows emphasised the haggard planes of his face, a stark contrast to the crisp new armour he wore.

Samson’s smiled as if in jest, but they both knew how transparent the comment was. Cullen frowned and closed his hands about the vial, cutting off the soothing glow. “Rejoin your squad, Samson. We’ll be marching on the Circle soon.”

“Ser,” he saluted. He looked away briefly. “I’m wondering now if I made a mistake.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed and the faint sense of camaraderie at the familiar face faded. “Desertion is a much worse charge than the one that saw you expelled last time. Don’t make me regret the risk I took in requesting authorisation to reinstate you.”

Samson held up his hands and gave Cullen a measuring look. “Just follow orders, right, Ser?” His voice grew a little harsher. “Even the ones that will see us risk our lives to kill innocents?”

“Yes,” Cullen replied curtly. “Follow your orders, Knight-Templar Samson. The consequences are on my head, not yours.” _Maker forgive me._

“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything different, Ser,” he responded as he backed away. He settled his helm on his head and merged into the ranks until he was just another identical templar amongst many.

Cullen opened his hand and stared down at the vial. He might have returned to a full dose of lyrium, but he’d never had more than the proscribed amount since Greenfell. Meredith had never made a point of enforcing Mother Neive’s order for him to maintain a double dosage. She’d never even mentioned an awareness of it. Until today.

“I need your unflinching service more than ever. Your restraint in where others have fallen to temptation has done you credit, but now you will take it,” she had ordered as she withdrew the emergency reserves of lyrium.

Shame clutched burning fingers around him. Y _ou have your orders_ , he thought queasily. He drained the contents in one go. Undiluted, drunk straight from the vial rather than in a prepared draught, the taste was vibrant enough to bring to mind the first infusion. The liquid danced across his tongue and coated his throat in cold fire. His veins burned as the dose washed through his body, filling his limbs with strength. The renewed clarity of the lyrium song was a choir to rival the purest Chantry service.

But there was no denying that the melody wasn’t as intense as it might once have been. Once, he could have lost himself in it until there was nothing left of him but cool clarity and certainty. A brief reminder of Greenfell soured the song. Not enough. Never enough to overcome his weakness.

Cullen strode over to join Meredith. She stood with an uncharacteristically serene look on her face as she surveyed the massed ranks before her.

“Never have I been more certain of our path,” she commented as Cullen settled himself at her side.

Cullen murmured an absent agreement and looked over the ranks of waiting templars. Whatever she saw that had painted that look of possessive pride on her face, it was invisible to him. They looked like nothing more than an army. Certainly not like protectors or the servants of the Maker they were meant to be. Even the strengthened melody of lyrium couldn’t change that.

His gaze drifted over his shoulder to look up at the building looming above them. Much like Kinloch Hold, Kirkwall’s Circle had been established in a highly defensible fortress. They’d already penetrated the first two most difficult layers unchallenged; the isolated location in the bay followed by the nested walls and towers protecting the fortress. They’d been lucky Orsino didn’t have the desire to force them into a siege. But the Gallows had stood undefeated for over a thousand years and had only been abandoned once an entire city of slaves had revolted. Even with all their training and numbers, tonight would not be easy.

“Maker give us strength,” he muttered.

Meredith raised an eyebrow at his distraction before she nodded in grave agreement. “We have a difficult road ahead of us. Not just here, but in Kirkwall itself. Magic will remain a danger to this city until we can bring every last apostate into the fold, even those who have proven themselves loyal in the past.”

“The Champion?” Cullen asked doubtfully.

“Indeed. We could hardly save the city from one danger only to allow the Kirkwall’s most prominent mage to remain free,” she said lightly. “After this night is over, she will be detained as an apostate.”

It seemed poor reward for the Champion’s assistance, but she _was_ an apostate. He sighed wearily. “Understood, Knight-Commander.”

Meredith clasped her hands behind her back. “It is time.” She raised her voice to carry to the very furthest ranks. “Let me tell you what is about to happen. We have the unenviable task of entering the Gallows and eliminating every mage we find within. You must harden your hearts. The magic within them is a disease that — if left unchecked — will spread and fester.” She clenched her fists in front of her and her voice grew more strident. “We will do what we must. Maker have mercy on their souls.”

_Maker have mercy on ours._

The mournful tolling of a bell echoed across the Gallows. She drew her sword and raised it high. The red crystals embedded in the blade glittered with reflected light.

The first squads marched in perfect lockstep towards the sole remaining entrance into the Circle, Meredith and Cullen at their head. Hawke and her companions trailed behind the vanguard. Hawke offered him a short nod, her expression grim and determined enough to match his own. Cullen returned it after a short pause. She’d earned his trust.

The high archway leading into Templar Hall loomed ahead of them. Like an oil slick on water, iridescent colours crawled lazily between the gateway’s solid supports. The magical barrier was unquestionably beautiful. A token gesture as a final denial of the slaughter to come.

Meredith was briefly limned in white tinged red by the magical scarring in the sky. With a sneer and an indolent raise of her hand, Meredith dispelled the magic blocking their path. The barrier shattered. Dust was thrown into the air around her.

The shadowed portal beckoned.

Cullen clenched his fingers about the hilt of his sword and retreated behind the soothing lyrium song.

_Blessed are the peacekeepers._

~~~~

A hex slid off Cullen like water, leaving a prickling trail on his skin. The first traces of lightning playing across the mage’s fingertips sputtered out as Cullen’s blade delivered a swift death.

A pillar of flame erupted off to one side, sucking the life out of the air to leave it dry and thin. Cullen’s was left parched by the sudden dryness. A templar was frozen into a solid pillar of ice. A stray blast of force, and he shattered into pieces. A mage convulsed, limbs warping into grotesque shapes as she gave in to the call of a demon. The abomination eviscerated the templar beside him and four more behind that in quick succession. More templars rushed forwards to fill the gap in their line. The abomination fell beneath the assault.

Mage after mage fell, but the templar death toll was little better.

Hungry flames. Sparkling ice. Crackling lightning. Raw force. The copper tang of blood and blood magic. The lyrium in his blood boiled as mage after mage readied and cast their spells. The sheer volume of magic in the air overcame whatever silencing influence the templars could exert. He retreated a step further behind lyrium, until even the inevitable fear was nothing but a vague memory.

He dispelled a burgeoning fireball with a casual exertion of his will. The lyrium sang its captivating melody all around him as the templars around him attacked and advanced, time and again. The hum drowned out the scream as the closest mage fell beneath his blade. Then a pair of shades. Then another mage.

Suddenly, the path in front of him was clear. A flaming pile of broken furniture barricaded the door into Templar Hall’s interior. Their advance was brought to a sharp halt.

Across the other side of the courtyard, Meredith knocked a mage over with a kick to the chest. He raised his hands to ward off the oncoming blow.

“Please-”

Her sword pierced his abdomen and a few inches of flagstone beneath. She pulled the blade free with an easy tug and an exultant smile.

The silence seemed somehow wrong after that brief span of chaos and confusion that had turned the world into a blur of magic and steel.

Templar Hall’s central courtyard had been a small slice of light and air in an edifice that was otherwise busy, airless, and confined. Peaceful wasn’t a word that anyone would apply now. It looked like the battlefield it had become. The worn flagstones were littered with the bodies of the dead. Draped over the balustrades. Sprawled on the stairs. Charring in the dancing flames of the barricades. Impaled on the spikes lining the upper walls.

Cullen’s mental shield of detachment and instinct wavered. If there was any justice, his body should have joined the rest of the dead, seven years too late.

This was the annulment he’d begged so desperately for once. Every mage who had faced them was dead. Orsino’s first line of defence had fallen, and the templars were barely winded. There were inevitably more than a few dead templars too, but for the mages, it had been a massacre.

He wiped hissing demon ichor off his sword. The brilliant steel was briefly outlined by the flickering flames of the barricades. A physical manifestation of the Sword of Mercy that marked his breastplate. _Mercy?_ The mages had been defending their home, their lives, with no quarter offered. It wasn’t mercy that had been delivered by this sword. Cold comfort that there had been a few blood mages amongst those killed, proving Meredith’s suspicions correct. Perhaps they had been blood mages before the Right of Annulment was invoked. Perhaps not. What difference did it make now that they were dead?

Meredith raised her voice to ring over the background crackle of flames. “If you are committed to this cause, you will make yourself useful, Champion.” She lifted a disdainful hand to indicate the flaming barricades blocking the exits.

For once, Hawke didn’t have a word to say. She exchanged an uneasy look with her companions and cleared the entrances. Perhaps she had begun to realise that — whatever side she chose — there was no way to romanticise the Right of Annulment.

Varric whistled as they entered the Circle’s entrance hall. “Andraste’s ass. I should have been trading with the Circle.”

The entrance hall to the Circle was certainly impressive enough to make up for the austere efficiency of Templar Hall, even with the metal statues that were eternal reminders of Tevinter cruelty. But it wasn’t the display of wealth that made the very air seem to glitter. Cullen arrested Varric’s advance with a brief tap on the elbow. “Careful, dwarf.”

The lyrium in Cullen’s blood simmered restlessly with so much magic around them. But without a mage’s or templar’s sensitivity to magic, the deadly maze of rune traps that littered the floor must have seemed like nothing more than an odd brightness to the air.

“Allow me,” he offered, before hesitating. Working _with_ a mage to conduct an assault wasn’t exactly something he did often. “I’d suggest you retreat out of range, Champion, unless you’re happy to fight without your magic.”

A look of nauseous disquiet crossed Hawke’s face as she backed away to well outside the outer limits of even the most powerful Cleanse. Cullen imagined that knowing you could be stripped of magic in an instant was an incredibly discomfiting realisation for a mage. Even Circle mages who lived and worked with templars every day hated the reminder.

He drew on lyrium and focused the energy outward. It seemed almost eager to respond. There was a dull whump and the air deadened for a moment. One after another, the rune traps shattered in a cascading ring of sparks. A confusing mix of colours in a thousand shades filled the air, covering near every school of magic and briefly demonstrating every caster’s unique signature. The free mana left the air feeling charged with a restless energy, before it too was cleared away by the cleansing burst. Cullen was left standing at the centre of a thirty foot semicircle of cleared space.

He directed a handful of the templars behind him to the rest of the hall. “Clear everything. I don’t want anyone to stumble into a rune trap by mistake.”

“Maker,” muttered Hawke as she stepped into the cleared space around Cullen. “As if I needed a reminder that it’s a bad idea to cross a templar. I’m keeping well out of your way and that…” she waved her free hand descriptively in Cullen’s direction, “anti-magic aura you’ve got going, if that’s alright with your Knight-Commander.”

“Feel free, Champion. Just keep within shouting distance,” he replied absently, eyes on the stairs up to the main floors of the Circle. He’d almost forgotten the background hum of lyrium as he maintained a denial of magic. In a Circle full of potentially hostile mages, he certainly wasn’t willing to drop it simply to give one apostate ally easier access to the Fade.

The air grew heavy, as if every successive cleansing burst was draining a little more life away from the grand entrance hall. Cullen’s gaze drifted upwards. The mages hiding here might not have seen the carnage in the courtyard, but they would never miss the arrival of the templars now.

The public floors were echoingly empty. Only a handful of dead templars signified that there had ever been any mages here. Cullen closed his eyes in silent prayer to find the apprentice dormitories on the following levels just as empty.

A cadre of mages mounted a pitiful resistance on the next floor and fell quickly beneath the assault, cut off from the Fade before a single spell could be cast. Cullen might have felt some guilt at how coldly they were executed, had they not been standing over the dead bodies of templars. But each death made it a little harder to hide his burning guilt behind the certainty of lyrium.

By the next floor, there wasn’t a single mage to be seen, only corridors of shrieking demons. Not anywhere close to a match for the sheer terror and desperation of the Circle Tower at its worst, crawling in demons and abominations, but the memories strained against the lyrium song holding them back.

The corridors charred black as blazing rage demons trailed molten talons along the walls and summoned streams of fire to sweep towards them. In the tight corridors of the Circle, there was no way to dodge. A few more templar casualties to add to the tally.

The icy fingers of Despair and the lethargic caress of Sloth whispered futility. Spindly terror demons flickered in and out of view, disappearing as quickly as they appeared. Templars stumbled and fell to sharp talons that sliced through steel as easily as the flesh beneath.

More bodies thrown into Meredith’s vendetta.

Hawke — having no choice but to forge far ahead in an attempt to keep free of the templars’ silencing influence — disappeared out of view, demons falling to a lethal combination of bladed staff and magic.

Meredith’s voice rose above the shrieks and screams. “Knight-Captain. We cannot allow the Champion out of our sight.”

With a concerted effort, Cullen forced through the final cluster of demons that blocked the path ahead. A focused smite threw one into a wall where a sharp slash could remove its head from its shoulders. Brute force threw another to the floor as he charged forwards and finished it with a blade through the chest.

He raced ahead towards the stairwell up which Meredith had disappeared in pursuit of the Champion. Darkened and empty doorways to mages’ chambers flicked past on either side. The smooth walls of the stairwell whipped past him as he sprinted up the stairs.

There were a few shouted warnings. Cullen’s gaze snapped to flickers of movement in a side passage, ready for a renewed assault. A trio of mages appeared and threw their staffs to the floor. They collapsed to their knees in unison as swords were raised in readiness and cast about for a friendly face, before settling on Hawke.

“Have mercy, we beg you,” one begged, hands raised in desperate plea. “Do whatever you want with us, but let us live!”

Cullen felt the sudden urge to offer a prayer of fervent thanks. Perhaps not every mage needed to be executed.

His brief surge of hope died as Meredith stalked up to the kneeling trio. This was a familiar scene. A kneeling mage, executed with a clean sweep of her greatsword. Heads rolling across the ground to rest at his feet. _Surely I couldn_ _’t have expected anything different to happen now, of all times?_

“No,” she snapped, overriding whatever Hawke had meant to say. Her hand twitched, ready to reach for the sword at her back. “This Circle is beyond redemption.”

“Knight-Commander,” he interjected as he strode over to join her, “surely the Right of Annulment requires something more-”

Her brows lowered over a glacial stare. “It requires my word, Cullen. Do as I’ve commanded.”

Cullen stiffened. He cursed the engrained instinct that forced him to obey without concious thought.

The mages slumped. “Champion! Will you not defend us? Must we all be slaughtered for the actions of a few?”

Hawke looked up and met Cullen’s bleak look. “I want to hear what the Knight-Captain has to say.”

Cullen felt a flicker of surprise. “I…” He looked over to Meredith. Irritation simmered just below the surface of that cold stare, but he forged ahead with the opportunity he’d been given. “The Right has always been a last resort, when every mage involved was beyond salvation. The situation was far more dire in Ferelden’s Circle, and yet many mages were saved.” He looked over to Meredith with a silent plea for her to see reason. “We could still do as much here.”

She tossed the suggestion aside with a perfunctory shake of her head. “Objection noted, Knight-Captain.”

Hawke ignored Meredith’s growing impatience and looked over to Cullen again. “Is there a way to tell if they’re blood mages?”

“There is not,” Meredith snapped, as if Hawke had addressed her.

“But they haven’t resorted to it, even to save their own lives,” Cullen replied, more to Meredith than to Hawke. “Perhaps, if we watched them carefully-”

“And if they hope to escape by playing innocent? Will you accept that responsibility, Cullen?”

It was almost laughably obvious how she attempted to resurrect the ghosts of his past to control him. In hindsight, it was a common theme right from his early days in Kirkwall.

“Yes,” he replied gravely. “I believe that’s what being a Templar is about.”

“And I say we are here to protect people. We must be judges, jailers, and even executioners.” Meredith’s gaze fell on the kneeling mages at that last pronouncement.

Cullen tensed in nervous anticipation. If she gave the order, he’d have no choice but to obey and accept a different kind of responsibility.

Hawke saved him from the decision. “They’ve already surrendered. Killing them now is just petty.”

Cullen exhaled. “Listen to the Champion,” he ordered the squad behind him before Meredith could protest. To his gratitude, they obeyed without hesitation. These might not be templars suspended for their part in rebellion, but never had it been more obvious that Knight-Commander Meredith had become an unpopular commanding officer for the rank and file.

Meredith’s jaw nearly dropped as she watched the mages stumble away under guard. A look of sheer hatred crossed her face for the briefest fraction of a second, before disappearing as if it had never existed. She stalked to a corner out of hearing and called Cullen over to her.

“Give me good reason to overlook this insubordination.”

“The Right of Annulment does not strictly demand the execution of mages that pose no threat,” he offered in defence. He desperately wished for another vial of col blue to drown the taste of ashes and blood on his tongue. “Saving those who pose no threat will allow the Circle to be rebuilt.”

“You will find that I am quite familiar with the rules governing the annulment of a Circle, Cullen.” She folded her arms and a smirk twisted her mouth. “Given that you were so eager to see them spared, perhaps you might take responsibility for them. Clear Templar Hall and hold your mages there. And any others that might surrender,” she added as an insincere afterthought.

“Knight-Commander. Of all things, you cannot ask that of me!” he protested in disbelief. “The Circle hasn’t yet been secured. I will not stand by when I have a duty to do.”

“You defied my orders once, Knight-Captain. You will not do so again.”

“I- Yes, Knight-Commander,” he ground out with a crisp salute. Maker knew he had enough blood on his hands, but he didn’t want to shirk his responsibility to the templars of the Gallows either.

“Good,” she replied cheerfully. “Then your insubordination is forgotten.”

She strode away, suddenly much lighter on her feet. A handful of barked orders, and she disappeared out of sight.

Cullen bit back a curse and surveyed those she had left to him. Enough to ensure Templar Hall was secure, and not a single templar more. It couldn’t have been more obvious that she was placing him in a position where he couldn’t interfere with her purge of the Circle.  Of all the templars in the Gallows, he was the only one who had experienced close quarters combat with hostile mages in a Circle. And he’d been commanded to wait outside. That injustice burned right through lyrium’s damping influence on his emotion. He’d shown his hand too early, and now was forced to wait outside whilst other fought and died in his place.

“Orders, Ser?”

Cullen exhaled. “We secure Templar Hall.”

_~~~~_

Clearing Templar Hall didn’t take long. The phylactery chamber and archives had been destroyed, as if it made much of a difference. A bare handful of mages had lost themselves in Templar Hall’s unfamiliar confines. Most surrendered without offering even token resistance. Like their first three captives, they claimed they had wanted nothing to do with whatever the First Enchanter had planned to help combat the templar threat. Cullen was left with the sickening feeling that no one would be leaving the tower alive.

Keeping Templar Hall and the sole exit from the Circle secure wasn’t enough to keep him distracted from thoughts of what was happening in the tower. Even a sense of duty was becoming an increasingly weak shield to mask the voice that screamed that something was extraordinarily, disgracefully wrong and begged for him act. And still the sweet song of lyrium hummed its melodic chorus, as if Andraste herself stood by his side, the Chant spilling from her lips. Why was it no comfort?

They waited.

First it was a trickle. Then a stream. Injured templars limped out of the Circle. Cullen had prayed that they’d somehow escape injury, even knowing how futile the prayer was. Realistic expectations meant he was more than prepared to lead the triage of the survivors. Slowly, the main courtyard refilled with templars stained with blood and ichor. Fully half of the returned templars had injuries of some kind. The external ones would heal with time. Maker knew how long the hidden ones would take.

He managed to piece together an approximate account of events from those still standing. Resistance had increased as they’d moved into the parts of the tower housing the senior mages. Then, quite suddenly, they’d stumbled across bodies drained of blood. They’d advanced into the teeth of powerful blood magic. Templar casualties increased dramatically. Meredith suspicions had been proven right once again.

“And the First Enchanter?”

The templar blanched. “Dead. The Knight-Commander killed him.”

“Was he a blood mage?” Cullen pressed. He _had_ to know what the captives had feared. Orsino had said that mages would turn to the most forbidden tools in desperation. Had that been a threat? A plea for understanding? He felt he hardly knew a mage he'd worked with for six years.

“Maker. I don’t know _what_ he was.” The templar turned a shade paler. “I’ve never seen so many bodies…”

Cullen stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have asked. Dismissed.”

He raised his eyes to the sky. _Maker forgive me_. For what, he couldn’t say. There were enough crimes on his shoulders to last a lifetime. He wasn’t even sure he could muster the willpower to hate the First Enchanter for turning to the tool that had so disgusted the mage. That might be the most uncomfortable realisation of all.

Meredith herself followed the last of the templars out of the Circle. She stood quietly by his side, her eyes fixed on the thin ranks gathered in the main courtyard. Cullen had expected her to be happy at their triumph, however bloody. Instead, she looked as if a new weight of responsibility had settled itself on her.

“Look at all this,” she said softly. “Magic is a cancer in the heart of our land, just as it was in the time of Andraste.” She cast a look over her shoulder and her shoulders straightened with determination as she spotted Hawke’s halting approach. “And like her, we are left with no choice but to purify it with fire and blood.”

“You almost sound as if you're happy to do it,” Hawke said sharply.

"Happy?" Meredith replied incredulously. She turned to face Hawke fully. Cullen turned too, expression impassive. If Meredith meant to arrest the Champion, now would have to be the time, in the heart of the Gallows. "I would prefer we lived in a world without such sickness, where such madness is unnecessary. But we do not. Even this battle is not yet over."

That grave tone of voice was easy to recognise. Every templar in the courtyard was tired to the bone, but they knew when they were needed.

“I am beginning to wonder just how large your part in all this actually was," Meredith continued thoughtfully. "An apostate come into our city, gathering power and influence? A sudden hero of the people? How can I trust that the mighty Champion of Kirkwall is not a worse threat to this city than the Circle?”

Cullen flicked a cautious glance between Hawke and Meredith as she spoke. Her words edged into unwarranted paranoia, where their only duty now was to restrain an apostate. Even that was arguable given Hawke's unflinching aid on this bloody night.

“You’re seeing threats where none exist,” Hawke replied curtly.

Meredith grunted disbelievingly. “Just the sort of misdirection I would expect from you. The people of Kirkwall will mourn your loss, but I will tell them you died battling the mages. A righteous cause.”

Cullen’s gaze snapped back to Meredith, his heart jumping in his chest. “Knight-Commander, I thought we intended to _arrest_ the Champion,” he said sharply, biting each word out with exacting precision.

She scowled at him. “You will do as I command, Cullen.”

He’d accepted order after order with utter loyalty. After accepting the annulment of an entire Circle, one more death ought not to have meant much against the weight of seven years of the dead that rested on his shoulders, but it was one push too far.

“No,” he replied acidly. He didn’t need to look to see the visceral shock that rippled out through the nearby templars. “I defended you when Thrask started whispering you were mad. But this is too far.”

A look of animalistic rage twisted Meredith’s face. She whipped the sword from her back and drew on ... something. The blade vented a lambent red glow, both unlike and uncannily similar to the pure white of a lyrium-infused blade.

“I will not allow insubordination! We must stay true to our path!”

A hum filled the air with a discordant melody, echoing behind her angry shout. It certainly wasn’t the pure beauty of chantry lyrium, but it called to the same empty spaces that were filled by the draught he took every morning.

The razor tip sliced up and hovered scant inches from Cullen’s face. His breathing stopped involuntarily and he raised his hands. Cullen was taller and heavier than Meredith. But at that moment, with the humming greatsword levelled at his throat without even a flicker of unsteadiness, that meant less than nothing.

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks.” The dwarf’s voice rang far too loudly in the sudden silence that had enveloped the courtyard.

Cullen took a generous step back as Meredith turned a cruel smile at the Champion and her companions. All the while, that blade pulsed with a scarlet light and a hum like lyrium, only … wrong.

“You recognise it, do you not?” She withdrew the blade and caressed the humming flat of the blade, drawing a clear note that resonated painfully with the lyrium in Cullen’s blood. There was a ripple in the ranks as every templar but Meredith flinched.

“Pure lyrium,” she purred with avaricious hunger. “Taken from the Deep Roads. The dwarf charged a great deal for his prize.”

 _Lyrium?_ Cullen thought incredulously. Just like every templar, he was intimately familiar with the look, the sound, the taste, the smell, even the feel of lyrium. This was like no lyrium Cullen had ever seen, and yet now that she’d said it, he recognised the call for what it was. Meredith had found a far darker, more intoxicating source of lyrium to feed the thirst that tormented them all.

A piercing headache blossomed behind his eyes. Like the key in a lock, the humming blade unlocked a torrent of seemly disparate memories. The non-sound that followed her. Red-drenched light. Brutal accusations. Fear and anger splintering the fragile peace of the Gallows. Meredith’s cruel smirk in a darkened corridor.

“It seems a lot more sword-like than I remember,” Hawke mused lightly, her tone entirely at odds with Meredith’s possessive desire.

The blade flicked back out and buzzed through the air to level itself at the champion. Simmering rage filled Meredith’s voice again. “All of you, I want her dead!”

The last embers of Cullen’s loyalty to Meredith sputtered out. Maker knew why he had waited so long. She had been corrupted by whatever foul source of lyrium she had found. She was mad, and he had chosen the coward’s route instead of taking action when he’d realised it had become necessary.

“Enough! This is not what the Order stands for. Knight-Commander. Step down. I relieve you of your command.” His voice echoed back at him from the courtyard’s walls. Every templar would know what was happening here.

The sword drooped and a look of utter shock filled Meredith’s face as she turned back to him. “My own Knight-Captain falls prey to the influence of blood magic.” The shock was replaced with disgust as she looked over the massed ranks that looked on with undisguised bafflement. “You all have!” The blade hummed through the air and the loose ring around her widened as templars stumbled back from the deadly weapon. “You’re all weak, allowing the mages to control your minds. To turn you against me.” She levelled her blade at Hawke. “But I don’t need any of you! I will protect this city myself.”

Cullen’s sword hissed from its sheath. Without a flicker of doubt, he levelled it at Meredith. “You’ll have to go through me.”

No more cowering in the shadows, blind to the crimes around him. The madness had to be stopped before it spiralled out of all control. For the first time in months, he felt he was doing the right thing, even as she turned a black scowl towards him. Looking into those eyes, it was impossible to remember the woman who had inspired his loyalty. 

“Idiot boy! Just like all the others.”

She plunged her sword into the ground before her. It erupted with brilliant red light and the blade’s discordant hum intensified to a grating song. Red cracks spidered out from the impact point. Every templar but Cullen was forced back to the very perimeter of the courtyard, as far from that brutal melody as they could get.

Cullen grit his teeth and forced himself to stand firm beside Hawke, despite the discordant shriek that left him as tightly strung as a bowstring.

Meredith bowed her head over the blade and closed her eyes. “Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter!” She intoned the words with all the fervent belief of a chantry Mother.

With an easy tug, the blade came free from the flagstones. She spun the blazing sword about as if it weighed less than a feather and settled into a ready stance.

Cullen’s eyes narrowed with determination. His own blade reflected the growing light that built in Hawke’s staff as she drew on her own magic. He settled into his own ready stance, an apostate mage by his side and her companions at his back.

The brilliant light from Meredith’s sword settled into a baleful glow that pulsed like the beating of a heart. Its shrieking melody settled into discordant hum that was as captivating as it was painful. He denied the siren call as firmly as he denied the distant unease evoked by the building crackle of mana in the air. Many long years of resisting temptation and desire would not go to waste.

He finished the familiar prayer silently, but no less emphatically. _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

_In their blood the Maker's will is written._

Seven years he’d been haunted by the echo of a boy trapped powerless and afraid who had survived when all others had died.

His focus narrowed to the inhuman silhouette of his commanding officer limned in pulsating red light.

If the Maker chose to collect that debt of blood now, so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has possibly the most divergence from what you see in-game. I subscribe to the idea that Varric dramatises/romanticises a lot of events. In-game, you fight the mages in Templar Hall’s courtyard, so I stuck with that and included some justification for why they don’t use the main entrance. But I’ve had templars join Hawke, on the assumption that they would definitely be around for the annulment (obviously Varric would say that Hawke saved the day alone). I also stretched things out to take place in the Circle rather than a handful of corridors around Templar Hall (clearly Varric isn't too interested in picking accurate locations). Cullen gets kicked out part way through, to explain why he isn’t around for the fight with Orsino.
> 
> I’m leaving the final showdown with Orsino slightly ambiguous. The only thing I’m maintaining is that he used some kind of unknown forbidden (possibly blood) magic from Quentin’s research.


	35. Her Fear Ended in Madness

**13th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

Cullen dashed a hand across his forehead in a futile attempt to wipe away the sweat in a vanishingly small lull in Meredith’s assault. She was impossibly fast, impossibly strong. More so even than lyrium should have made her. His sword was notched and chipped where he had barely blocked countless wild sweeps of her blade. His shield arm was a numb mass from the elbow down. Quite possibly fractured under the onslaught. Hawke and her companions had leapt wholeheartedly into the fray, only to find themselves pressed even harder than Cullen was. _He_ was barely holding her back, and he’d trained in combat since he was eight, had pushed himself for years until he could match and overcome the best. This was quite simply beyond belief.

Meredith leapt from person to person, a blur of glowing red and bone-white blade. She whipped her greatsword about with one hand as if a weapon almost as tall as she was weighed less than a recruit’s arming sword. Barely a moment to breathe, let alone to press the attack. They’d hit her time and again, and she’d just absorbed the blows with a bloody smile and barely a flinch. Then, when they thought she might be flagging, she’d leapt away.

The first violent smite had near deafened him with its unnatural force. A visible trail of fire had crackled out from Meredith’s sword and left a charred scar in its wake. Hawke had been stripped of what little was left of her mana, miraculously managing to scramble to her feet whilst her brother barely blocked Meredith’s slash. All the while, the air around them vibrated with the brutal, captivating melody of red lyrium. Stronger than chantry lyrium, whatever magic Hawke might have been able to bring to bear was completely out of her reach. Her first horrified flinch as she tried to cast a spell was testament to that.

Then, as if her attack wasn’t punishing enough, the very statues guarding the gates into the Circle had fought by her side. Metal golems that they’d barely managed to neutralise with targeted blows to destroy the lyrium rods powering them. No one had ever given credit to the tales of those ancient Tevinter artefacts. And yet she’d brought them to life in all their malevolent glory.

Now, with bone-deep fatigue, he fended off another of Meredith’s assaults. He managed to slip in a return attack of his own between the blurring sword and blinding light and grating song. She bared her teeth in a bloody smile. Another crippling blow to join the others that he and the others had struck, accepted with nothing more than a wince. He caught her counter-attack on his shield, and was inexorably forced backwards as she pushed against his defence. The buzzing resonance provoked by her sword grew to a painful intensity.

“It’s not enough that they make innocents suffer, no! We must have insult added to injury. Spare the mages?” she spat, inches away from his face. “Give them freedom and they would tear down everything we hold dear. You knew this once.”

A crossbow bolt shattered on her armour. Her head snapped about and again, she leapt away. The intense force pushing against Cullen was suddenly removed and he staggered forwards. He couldn’t even tell any more whether it was the lyrium song or her that shrieked. Maybe it was both. Her unnaturally high jump took her just out of reach behind the flames that flickered hungrily all around them.

They were all painted by that bloody glow, but Meredith didn’t need the flames to be seen. She glowed with her own infernal light, as if her blood had been entirely replaced by lyrium, powering her like the golems they had destroyed. A delicate tracery of scarlet lightning played across her form, arcing and crackling with violent and growing energy. And most disturbing of all, light spilled from her eyes, casting sharp shadows across the stark planes of her face.

Meredith blurred forwards, once again aiming right for Hawke, blade couched like a lance.

“It cannot be allowed! Do you hear me, Champion?” she called. “I will stop you.”

Hawke barely managed to avoid being impaled. She tripped to one side, such that Meredith’s sword blade sliced a gash across her hip rather running her through. It was clearly an unintentional move, but her staff blade remained in Meredith’s path. It pierced right through the weakened links of the chainmail protecting Meredith’s abdomen.

It should have been floored her completely. Or if not that, then the countless other blows they’d struck before should have been. This time, it seemed to have some effect.

The light blazed brighter for a second, and a corrupted cleansing burst threw debris into the air. Cullen was thrown back, stunned by a force that only a mage should have felt. Fat arcs of scarlet lightning spat out from Meredith and played across the scarred flagstones.

She raised a hand to the oozing wound. Her palm came away covered in blood that leaked its own faint light. It seemed to bring her up short. When she spoke, her words were faint and disbelieving “Why is this taking so long? Can ones so evil truly be so powerful?” She raised an imploring hand as if she knelt alone in a chantry rather than standing on a burning battlefield amongst the wreckage of inanimate golems. “Maker, please tell me what I must do.” The hand drooped and her voice lowered in disbelieving horror. “What if … I’m not doing the right thing? What if this is all madness?”

Cullen pushed himself to his feet, Hawke close on his heels. But he hesitated at her heartfelt prayer.

The red light flared, and Meredith clenched a fist. Zealous outrage replaced the brief spark of regret. “No! I must remain vigilant!”

Impossibly, her renewed assault was faster than before. Red trails of light blurred in her wake. A casual kick sent one of Hawke’s companions flying to land in a crumpled heap at the foot of a pillar. She blurred towards Cullen and barged into him with her shoulder. He was sent flying too. She ignored a flurry of crossbow bolts that shattered harmlessly on her armour and stalked towards Hawke.

“I _will_ stop you.”

Cullen mustered his scattered concentration and called a powerful smite down on Meredith. It might not have the effect it had on a mage, but it would be a distraction. The reserves of lyrium in his blood — already drained by the assault on the Circle — faded dangerously low. The splitting headache it evoked was driven to a fever pitch by the grating call of red lyrium.

Meredith shook off the smite with a growl. White sparks of pure lyrium flickered through the corrupted red trails of lightning that arced around her, as if fighting for dominance. Glowing eyes narrowed and she turned her attention away from Hawke.

“Traitors deserve no mercy,” she spat.

In that split second of distraction, an exhausted Hawke managed to whip up her staff, hitting the exact same spot as before. The blade of her staff penetrated far deeper this time, coming close to disemboweling Meredith.

She staggered backwards, shaking her head. Violent tendrils of lightning spat out of every cut and slash. She swept her blade through the air, sending a wave of red energy slashing through the air. Whatever faint hints of pure lyrium had emerged before were completely gone. The wave crackled across Cullen’s armour and raised every hair on his body to attention. He hissed in pain as his veins briefly filled with fire.

“I will _not_ be defeated,” she panted. She closed her eyes, cutting off the unnatural glow of her eyes, and raised her sword in entreaty. “Maker! Aid your humble servant!”

The blade _screamed._ The call of whatever tainted lyrium infused the sword screeched an angry chorus to rival the darkness of the Black City and the Maker’s empty seat. Now, you didn’t need to be a templar to hear the song. Hawke and her companions clamped their hands to their ears. The light built higher, the blade’s song soared from painful to inaudible. Angry sparks wreathed Meredith in scarlet light.

For a second, the sword became blindingly radiant. And shattered. Fragments of red crystal were propelled across the courtyard, embedding themselves in the walls and floor, narrowly missing the stupefied onlookers.

Meredith staggered back, screaming in unimaginable agony. This time, the shriek was all human. Fissures ran across her skin, leaking red light. She fell to her knees, writhing as red tendrils of energy erupted from her. Red crystal raced across her body, consuming skin, metal, cloth. The scream choked out and her writhing froze.

When the air cleared of noxious energy, a gleaming statue in red crystal knelt where Meredith had been, hands raised in a twisted parody of a supplicant’s prayer. The remains smouldered a nauseating crimson that pulsed slowly, angrily. Even from where he stood, he could feel the radiating heat that blackened the flagstones beneath the statue’s knees.

The brutal melody was still there, faint but audible, insinuating itself behind his eyes. Lyrium. Impossible to believe if the evidence wasn’t right in front of his eyes. Meredith had been utterly consumed by lyrium. A more nauseatingly apt death for a templar couldn’t be imagined.

Hawke inched closer, one hand clasped to her side. Cullen could understand the sick fascination. He was too stunned yet to be capable of sensible thought.

He pushed himself to his feet, sword still held in a cautious grip. A sharp gesture brought forwards the templars who’d fled to the courtyard’s periphery. Little surprise that they’d not known how to handle a pitched battle between their commanding officers. But the chain of command was clear now.

They surrounded Hawke and her companions in a loose ring of blades, uncertain whether Cullen meant to fulfil Meredith’s final order to arrest Kirkwall’s most famous apostate.

The lyrium in his blood pulsed gently as he denied any magic in the area. Despite all that Hawke had done for the Order over the years, he suddenly had no idea what she — or anyone — would do. Kirkwall had gone mad. Would Hawke turn on them now as the Knight-Commander had turned? And did he really intend to keep the final order of a raving madwoman?

With a tilt of his head, he ordered a Knight-Corporal to check on the frozen form, as if life could still be found in that crystalline statue. Cullen kept his sword raised and split his gaze between what had once been his commanding officer and the weary figures of Hawke and her companions.

The unlucky Knight-Corporal crouched in front of the statue, clearly reluctant to do more than look. A shake of her head confirmed what was obvious even from a distance.

Hawke raised her head to meet Cullen’s gaze. Unrefined astonishment was replaced by wary caution. Cullen’s gaze narrowed as the instinct to trust a clear ally warred with a distrust of mages that had been refined over years of service under Knight-Commander Meredith.

The thought brought him up short. He’d been shown in painful clarity how much he had allowed history and Meredith’s influence to warp his thinking. Magic was dangerous, but he had joined the Order to protect those in need. Executioners didn’t protect anyone.

Cullen lowered his sword and dropped to a knee, head bowed in humble salute. How could a single one of them claim divine right over mages when they had fallen so far? The lyrium song faded to a faint hum as he released his denial of magic.

Every one of the templars in the courtyard followed suit. Hawke and her companions were surrounded by a ring of kneeling templars, the last mortal remains of their Knight-Commander casting a baleful light over them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This boss fight is the end of DA2, so I've given it a chapter of its own, but I'm not at the end of this fic quite yet.


	36. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next three chapters have been a work in progress since I started the fic, so they’re all mostly finished (and long). I’ll probably have the whole lot posted with a relatively short break in between each upload.

**Day of the chantry explosion - 13th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

The main courtyard of the Gallows was carpeted in a ring of kneeling templars. It was far, far too quiet after the shriek of the red lyrium and clash of battle. Hawke looked around in stunned disbelief at the scene in front of her, from smouldering statue of a Knight-Commander to the passive templars around her. She and her companions kept their weapons half raised, unsure whether to run or fight or stay. Swords twitched, bowstrings creaked, a lick of magic tasted the air, as if testing to see whether it was all some trick.

Hawke lowered her guard and cleared her throat in the silence. “Ah, this really isn’t necessary.” She sidled closer to Cullen and held out a cautious hand.

Cullen flinched back minutely. Even now, instincts could not be broken. Instead, he shoved aside the discomfort and stood. There was the rattle of metal all around him as the templars filling the courtyard followed suit. With a curt nod, he clasped her hand. It was the briefest of touches that left the tingle of lyrium reacting to residual mana, but even that would have been too much only a few years ago.

“You have done the Order a great service,” he said bleakly. He glanced briefly at the crystalline form of his Knight-Commander. Scarlet light pulsed in a parody of a living being’s heartbeat. “It should never have gone this far.”

“You can hardly be to blame,” she said with a lightness that belied the despair lurking behind her eyes. “I saw what this red lyrium can do after only a short time. She must have had the idol for _years_. Maker knows how, but we all missed it. I should have suspected something.”

“It appears we must share the blame.”

Cullen’s gaze slipped from the Gallows to the lingering scarring in the skies over Hightown. Nauseous horror bubbled over what was left of the lyrium song. They’d just fulfilled a Right of Annulment that he should never have let happen. Kirkwall had been devastated by an explosion and was suffering an attack by rogue mages. He looked up to dusting of stars in the sky. It wasn’t even dawn yet.

“Maker give me strength,” he exhaled. Somehow, no one noticed the hitching uncertainty in his breathing. _Embrace the Light. Weather the storm. Endure._ “This is madness.”

Weary templars filled the courtyard around him, unsure what to do. The chain of command had suddenly become an uncertain thing. But whatever crimes he’d let happen or committed himself, he _was_ still their Knight-Captain. _Just a little more strength, Maker, please,_ he begged. _I might not deserve it, but I have a responsibility to fulfil._

He scanned the survivors anew and winced at the death toll. Of the twelve Knights-Lieutenant that had served out of the Gallows, only two were in any shape to head right back into Kirkwall. He shied away from guessing just how many were dead and clasped trembling hands behind his back. _Not Kinloch Hold._

“Knights-Lieutenant Karellian and Conrad, I’m afraid there’s work to be done in Kirkwall.”

The pair of Knights-Lieutenant emerged from the crowd of templars. Conrad removed his helmet, sparing a glance that was all cold disdain for Hawke’s party. In another life — one where Knights-Commander didn’t go mad and turn into statues of lyrium — he would have been the templar sent to drag an apostate like Hawke to the Circle.

From the veiled glances they exchanged, they must have expected a punishment for standing aside and letting Cullen fight alone. He could hardly blame them for keeping to the shadows. Knights-Captain might have the right to relieve Knights-Commander, but it was hardly a normal state of affairs. Siding with the losing side in a fight to the death could have been a death sentence of its own. Thank the Maker for the engrained discipline that meant they would follow orders.

“Gather those of your men still standing and neutralise any magical threats you find.” Through the bars of the portcullis, he could still see the minute eruptions of magic across Lowtown. He suppressed another, stronger flare of nausea and clutched for the clarity granted by the weakening lyrium song. _Maker,_ he prayed desperately. _Not now._ “Your target is the epicentre of the explosion.”

He spared a glance for Hawke. “Guard Captain Vallen is an associate of yours. Where is she?”

Hawke leaned on her staff for support, eyelids drooping tiredly. “Still in Kirkwall. She’s leading the Guard in dealing with…” she shuddered violently and a flare of horror crossed her face, “…the explosion’s aftermath.”

“Good,” he breathed. “But I’m afraid the city needs its Champion again.”

In that moment, she looked as bone-tired as he felt. “Of course it does,” she said with weary sarcasm. “And you, Knight-Captain?”

“I’m revoking the Right of Annulment, for what little worth that has now. I-” he swallowed back bile. _Maker forgive me._ “I need to lead a search of the Circle for survivors. I’ll join Knights-Lieutenant Karellian and Conrad in Kirkwall as soon as I’m able.”

 _Maker be praised_ , Cullen thought as not a word of protest was raised in response to his orders. The courtyard emptied out, leaving a handful of squads behind for him to lead in his own bitter task.

They marched through the main courtyard, dodging scattered wreckage and giving Meredith’s mortal remains a wide berth. Templar Hall’s courtyard was no better. The bodies had been cleared, but the flagstones were stained with blood and magical scars. No one would say this was anything other than the site of a massacre.

Something inside him screamed for some kind of release. It was a little harder to force it back this time.

On some muttered pretence that he couldn’t recall even seconds after saying it, he slipped into the commanding officers’ corridor. He’d meant to head to his own office, but he halted in front of Meredith’s door instead.

The familiar confines of her office had been made unfamiliar. The desk was scarred by burn marks where someone had set fire to the reports it had once held. The contents of the bookshelf had been scattered over the floor and the chairs were shattered piles of kindling in a corner. Even the templar shield once mounted behind the desk was a melted pile of slag that still leaked a faint heat.

The door clicked shut behind him, softening the details into indistinct lumps of darkness.

It was far, far too much effort to maintain his hold on a cloak of professionalism. Alone, with no one for whom the façade had to be maintained, his slipping hold failed entirely. His knees buckled and he retched up the pitiful contents of his stomach.

“Maker forgive me. What have I done?” He raised a trembling hand to cover eyes that burned with unshed tears and sat with his back against the door. “What have I done?” he whispered into the darkness.

Six years of blindness. Six years of utter loyalty. Six years of misplaced faith. For what? The Circle had been annulled. Kirkwall was in flames. Hundreds of mages and templars were dead. Maker knew how many of Kirkwall’s citizens were dead. This was a failure far worse than Kinloch Hold.

Then, to compound his crimes, he’d assisted in the murder of his own Knight-Commander. Oh, she might have attacked first and she might have been corrupted beyond redemption, but if he’d relieved her of duty earlier rather than being a quivering coward, perhaps it wouldn’t have ended in so much bloodshed.

The door thunked as he threw his head back to gaze upwards. Tiny motes of dust danced in the light that slipped through the cracks around the door. His heart ached. All the other physical scrapes were nothing compared to that pain.

The chantry — the centre of faith in Kirkwall — was gone. That serenity and comfort offered there had been taken from them all. But faith didn’t need ceremony. Sitting in the shadows of Meredith’s office, he prayed as if the words could piece together his shattered soul.

“Though all before me is shadow, Yet shall the Maker be my guide,” he recited bleakly. “I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost. I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here. Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be forgiven.”

Cullen choked out a desolate laugh on the final words. _Forgiveness?_ Life had a cruel sense of humour to dangle that promise just out of reach. A list of failures stretching back for long, exhausting, and pain-filled years denied him that, just as it denied him Mercy.

He needed to find healers for injured templars and citizens. He needed to search the Circle for survivors and somehow convince them to trust that their executioners were their guardians again. He needed to hold what was left of the Order and the Circle together. He needed to help Kirkwall recover from catastrophe. He needed to make up for this calamitous betrayal of the Order’s calling. All the while trying to hide just how broken he had always been.

His shoulders slumped as he tallied the tasks, each adding another weight on his shoulders. He hadn’t slept in two days. Maker knew if there’d be a chance any time soon, assuming he dared.

“Maker,” he breathed in a shuddering, despairing breath and brushed away the wetness on his face. “I am so _tired_. Will I ever be given a chance to rest?”

If the Maker was listening — if he had ever listened to a single one of Cullen’s prayers — there was no answer to be found.

He kept a few lyrium vials in his office, relics of a time when the Gallows had been subject to unpredictable attacks by the Mage Underground. It wasn’t dawn yet, but could anyone blame him for taking it early? There was so much work to be done.

He forced himself to stand and marched down the corridor, pulling an illusion of confidence he hadn’t earned about himself. Perhaps if he could hold the illusion together long enough, he could start to believe it again.

The emergency vials nestled in a small box on his shelf, the soothing glow going some way to easing the ache in his heart. He closed his eyes and drained a vial without bothering to mix it into a draught. It was the third vial of lyrium in less than a day. The fresh dose seared away all the fatigue, smoothed the sharp edges of his spiralling despair, drowned him in the serene beauty and clarity of the lyrium song. The song — sweet as the Chant — was a poor substitute for broken faith. But he couldn’t fall. Not yet. Not when there was still a debt of blood to repay.

~~~~

They scoured the Circle. The Gallows had been home to over two hundred mages. Even in the dead of night there had been signs of life. The murmur of conversation, the thud of armoured footsteps patrolling the corridors, the hum of magic. Now it was a hushed tomb, littered with corpses and painted with blood. The residual mana in the air seemed to hold the memory of screams. In those echoing halls of the slaughtered, Cullen and his handful of templars seemed the only people alive. The lyrium kept his mind numb as they ascended floor after dead floor.

A pitiful number of mages had escaped the annulment. Cullen approached, empty hands raised and meaningless reassurances on his lips. He knew they could see the empty spaces left behind his eyes by life and lyrium, but they wanted to believe they were finally safe as much as he did.

By the time they left the tower, dawn had broken. He paused only long enough to allow his tired templars to take their own daily lyrium dose before crossing the bay and marching into Kirkwall. They’d fought more demons than Cullen cared to count, an abomination, and two maleficarum. They’d dragged survivors out of broken buildings. They’d borne the recriminations and accusations of traumatised citizens. The triple dose of lyrium muted it all, as he hid behind the lyrium song.

The force Cullen had led into Kirkwall less than half a day ago seemed a long distant thing. Only a handful of hours later and the city was in a far worse state than before. By the time they were half way to Hightown, more of the buildings they passed had been damaged than not. In Hightown itself, buildings leaned drunkenly across boulevards and debris littered once-peaceful squares.

The armour pressed a little heavier on Cullen’s fatigued form. The taste of blood and ashes seemed caked on his tongue. Perhaps it had been for seven years, and he’d simply grown accustomed.

A month was optimistic. This would take years.

Even numbed as he was, the devastation where the chantry had once stood was enough to shock him into stillness. The gaping hole yawned as black as the void itself, red lightning flickering desultorily across the borders and unnoticed across his armour. Tattered banners fluttered forlornly in the breeze, their bright Chantry sunbursts marred by ash as if in mockery of his broken faith. There would be no survivors.

_This will take a lifetime to repay._

**One day after the chantry explosion - 14th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

Prepared missives to the Chantry and the Order littered Cullen’s desk. The cold and formal words didn’t do his account of the catastrophe justice. He had begged for aid, for a replacement Knight-Commander, for any support at all. He might face retribution for his actions, but the devastation in Kirkwall was a far more important concern than the career of one failed templar. What was left of the Guard and the Order in Kirkwall could not face the sheer impossible magnitude of the tragedy alone.

The lists of the dead had grown to the hundreds. Neatly inscribed on sheets of paper — one set for templars and one for mages — it became almost meaningless.

Knights-Lieutenant Ambris, Elyas, Halle, June, Karras. Colleagues. People he’d known for years, dead without ceremony. It was Kinloch Hold all over again. Twice as many Knights-Corporal. The number of dead Knights-Templar didn’t bear counting. It was a small mercy that the Guard were handling the dead in Kirkwall.

One familiar name after another, requiring one letter of condolence after another. He could have enlisted a tranquil scribe to assist, but it didn’t feel right. Seeing the bodies lined up under shrouds, guarded by those he could spare until pyres could be prepared, it was much easier to see the scale of a tragedy he should have prevented.

There was another pair of lists that were more troubling. A long list for missing mages. A short list for missing templars. The Circle had been completely cleared. Those two lists of names could only belong to people who had fled the Gallows entirely. Tens of mages, and no way to track them. Worse were the templars who had disappeared in the night. No one could say whether they had deserted in the chaos or been abducted off the streets as they assisted in the relief efforts.

Samson was a notable one of those. His name had been one of the very first listed amongst the missing. Barely two days he’d been reinstated, before fleeing Kirkwall to let it burn. A missing tranquil Samson had once helped. A missing chest of lyrium. The evidence couldn’t have been much more damning. Cullen cursed himself for ever trusting the man. Perhaps Meredith had seen more than Cullen had when she expelled Samson for erratic behaviour. Or perhaps his addiction to lyrium had corrupted him further than Cullen had guessed.

Samson wasn’t the only templar to have disappeared in the chaos. But somehow, the betrayal of someone he might once have considered a good man seemed far worse.

**Two days after the chantry explosion - 15th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

The few mages left in the Gallows were traumatised. They had been Loyalists and apprentices who had truly believed that the templars who shared their home had been guardians keeping them safe. Those same guardians had turned on them to deliver death with seeming cold indifference. Their friends had turned to blood magic or become abominations. It was a trauma that Cullen wished he didn’t recognise.

They wouldn’t talk about the demons that had to be plaguing them. Not with a templar. Never with a templar. What mage could have faced what they had and not have demons whispering and shrieking at the doors to their minds? Templars were meant to help, had the training and the ability to do so. But even the Loyalists knew what admitting difficulty would earn them. No help or support, just a brand for what they might become, for the danger they might pose. Mages _could_ fall. But so could a templar. He didn’t know what was right, but acting out of fear couldn’t be what the Maker had meant of them.

When he first found a spare moment to dare speak properly with the surviving mages, it was impossible to tell who was more afraid of whom. His apologies for the tragedy were meaningless in the face of the dead. That blood stained his soul. Another debt that he had to repay as best as he could.

He would not repeat Meredith’s mistakes. Those were his very first words, before they had even sat down. The Gallows was not a prison, and the Order were not their jailers. Trust had to be established between people who had been given more than enough reason to never trust again. He’d once known that being a protector meant protecting the mages as much as non-mages. Now, with ineloquent stumbling words, he had to prove that he still believed it true. Not a single one of the surviving mages was willing to become an official representative, but somehow, they came to an understanding.

The Circle was the site of massacre. The mages certainly couldn’t be rehoused there. If he could seal the place up for eternity, he would. He couldn’t transfer them to another Circle either, even had he found one willing and able to take so many mages at once. The closest Circles were weeks away and Kirkwall needed every templar it had. Small hope that any Circle would willingly volunteer to collect them.

The best he could manage was to order sections of the officers’ levels in Templar Hall cleared for their needs. There were hardly any officers left, and even less mages. It would serve.

Perhaps they ought to have remade phylacteries to replace those that had been lost, but every senior mage had turned along with Orsino. No one was left who knew the process. That was the explanation that Cullen provided to the remaining senior officers. In truth, it didn’t feel just to remind the mages of the Order’s claim of dominance.

Squad by squad, as templars participating in the relief effort rotated in and out of Kirkwall, Cullen informed what remained of his command of the new way of things in the Gallows. He repeated the same promises he’d made to the mages. They were not jailers. They would respect their charges. There would be no more abuse. Infractions would be severely punishment. That he couldn’t afford to lose a single templar by subjecting them to a discipline was a minor worry compared to the rest.

~~~~

It was far too soon for official word from the Chantry in Val Royeaux. But Starkhaven was a day away for a swift raven. And they had garnered some goodwill from their neighbouring city-state by rehoming their mages so many years ago.

 

> _Knight-Captain Cullen,_
> 
> _My condolences on the tragedy in Kirkwall. Rest assured that justice will be done._
> 
> _Never let it be said that the templars of Starkhaven do not recognise where their duty lies. As Starkhaven no longer has a Circle, its need for templars is low. Knight-Captain Rylen has volunteered to lead a contingent of one third of our garrison to provide support. They have departed on forced march to Kirkwall, to be expected in three days. Given your status as acting Knight-Commander, Ser Rylen will be at your disposal until such a time as a permanent replacement is found for the position. In addition, half our initiates and affirmed will join as reserves under Knight-Lieutenant Marston_ _’s command, to be expected two days following Ser Rylen. Provisions and shelter for the displaced will accompany Ser Marston._
> 
> _You need only ask, and we will be happy to assist be it in recapturing any who might have escaped from the Gallows or in providing further relief._
> 
> _Maker give you strength in this troubled time._
> 
> _Knight-Commander Carsten_

Cullen felt a surge of relief that left him weak at the knees. He slid down to sit against the wall of the darkened corridor outside the eyrie, heedless of the sharp pain of armour pressing into his bruised and fatigued muscles.

“Thank the Maker,” he murmured.

**Three days after the chantry explosion - 16th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

It was as if every maleficar, apostate and dormant abomination in Kirkwall had taken the explosion as a call to arms. Whatever enmity the Guard and the Order might have held was forgotten. They worked together in the relief efforts, Templars ensuring no guard was caught unprotected by hostile magic and guards ensuring no templar was accosted by hostile citizens. They were working day and night to do what they could for the city, but they had barely scratched the surface of the devastation in Kirkwall. Cullen had been awake for three days straight. The idea of actually getting a good night’s rest was an impossible dream. There hadn’t even been time to retreat to Templar Hall’s chantry to find a little serenity. Instead, it had been an endless blur of skirmishes in the streets and rescue efforts. There wasn’t time to stop.

But eventually, fatigue pulled at his bones and blurred his thoughts beyond lyrium’s ability to compensate. The Guard Captain looked as shattered as he felt. When she retreated to the Guard barracks for her own rest, she encouraged him to do the same. He was forced to return to the Gallows to sleep. He knew exactly what he would face. But much as he feared the nightmares, there was still too much to be done. Collapsing in the streets wasn’t an option.

It turned out that working himself beyond exhaustion didn’t help at all. When he finally entered his quarters for a few hours rest before dawn broke, he fell asleep without even stopping to remove his armour. But the inevitable nightmare sent him screaming from his bed. Demons and death had filled the Circle. The mages were only a floor below his quarters. Combined with new horrors, and it was more than his exhausted mind could suppress. The desperate assertion that he wasn’t back in Kinloch Hold spilled from his lips until the words became a meaningless blur.

Cullen dashed to the shelf holding his lyrium kit before he was even fully awake. The hand holding a fresh vial of lyrium shook like a leaf. Need? Fear? It didn’t matter. When conciousness fully returned, he yelped with horrified disgust and threw the vial to one side so forcefully that it shattered against the wall. Blue liquid oozed slowly down the wall, running through the seams between the bricks.

The three vials he’d taken on that terrible first day had been an exception. They _had_ to be an exception. The ozone smell and gentle glow of lyrium filled his cramped quarters. He retreated until his back hit the door. His panic grew a little stronger when the solid surface failed to yield. His heart fluttered in his chest. He couldn’t see the sky. There was no air. The walls were far too close. A trembling hand reached blindly for the handle.

It wasn’t until he found the fresh air of the long balcony overlooking Templar Hall’s courtyard that he felt he could breathe.

**Four days after the chantry explosion - 17th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

It had taken four long days, but every rampaging apostate, demon, and abomination in Kirkwall had been killed. Templar numbers were now a quarter of what they’d been a week ago, less than the garrison of the smallest Circle in Thedas. Far too few to provide aid to a vast city.

It was more than likely that other magical threats remained that were intelligent enough to keep out of sight of the templar patrols as they continued to clear debris and pull trapped people out of buildings. But for the citizens of Kirkwall, the streets were no longer certain death. The city might be teetering on the verge of collapse, but you were more likely to come across a looter than a shrieking demon.

A mass of scared and grieving people suddenly remembered exactly what had caused the devastation in the first place. With the true culprit dead, they lashed out at the next best target.

On the evening of the fourth day after the chantry explosion, the city rioted.

~~~~

The lone templar assigned to the Gallows’ main gate pointed a shaking hand at the bright glowing mass that was gradually drawing closer over the darkened waters of the bay. Cullen blinked tired eyes at the sight. Light mist softened the radiance to the warm glow of candlelight, as if the water itself had been turned into a pyre for a broken city.

It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that a recruit barely old enough to have begun training in full plate was overreacting. Their sheer short-handedness meant he had needed to press the barely-trained into service. They didn’t have the calm lyrium steadiness of veteran templars. But it was no overreaction.

The glowing mass of light resolved itself into hundreds of torches spread across tens of boats. The profound fatigue faded from Cullen’s mind. Whatever irritation he had had at being roused from a blessedly dreamless sleep disappeared.

“Rouse your Knight-Lieutenant,” he snapped. There were squad rotations who were soon due to wake. They needed rest as much as he did, but there was no choice. “I need him to bring Knight-Corporal Owan’s squad. Now.”

The recruit scurried off, eager to leave after the trauma of waking an exhausted Knight-Captain from his sleep, rather than reporting to his direct superior first. An irate Cullen had heard the recruit’s report after springing to the door of his quarters, sword in hand, ready for another catastrophe. It would be more than enough to start a new round of rumours in the recruit barracks.

Cullen scanned over the makeshift fleet and ran a hand through sleep-tousled hair. The bay was perfectly still and placid. Unless a boat spontaneously sunk, there was nothing to prevent them all from landing.

They’d been warned that it happened, but he had never thought to actually see a mob intent on harming a mage. That was the domain of isolated villages, not cosmopolitan cities.

He slammed a fist into the solid iron of the sealed portcullis, pain driving away fatigue that hadn’t been drowned by adrenaline. A part of him was mildly surprised it didn’t crumble into rusted fragments at his feet. At this point, one more catastrophe wouldn’t have been a surprise.

“Andraste give me strength,” he murmured to the clouded sky above. “Just this once, grant me the skill to defuse this without any more bloodshed.”

Even a single squad of templars could hold a fortress like the Gallows against untrained citizens for an Age, but that would leave them trapped when they were still needed in Kirkwall. This had to be resolved.

The squad — armed and armoured in record time, if they’d even bothered to remove their armour before collapsing in the barracks — mustered within sight of the portcullis moments before the first of the mob marched up the steps to the main gate. The crowd bristled with torches and weapons. The angry hum of conversation in the crowd was muted, but the wrong word could push them over the edge.

A man clutched at the bars of the portcullis. “Who is in command?” he shouted.

Cullen stepped out of the thin line of templars arrayed behind the portcullis. He settled a gloved hand on the hilt of the sword hastily belted to his side. He might not have had time to don more than robes and a breastplate before hurrying to the gate, but his sword barely left his hand these days.

“Knight-Captain Cullen, acting Knight-Commander of the Gallows,” he growled in voice he hoped transmitted all his frustration at being woken by a mob in the middle of the night. “If you have anything to say, you can say it to me.”

The man extended a dusty arm through the gate and pointed towards the tower. “There are mages in there, aren’t there? How can you still let them live after what they did to this city? Finish the job!”

Cullen wished he was surprised to hear those words. He raised his voice in response. If there was one thing he’d learnt as Knight-Captain, it was a voice that carried. “The Right of Annulment will not be invoked again without approval from the Divine herself. The mages here are not to blame.”

A few shouts from the crowd cut above the angry hum.

“Liars!” “Cowards!” “Traitors!”

Rocks whistled out of the crowd and bounced off armour.

“Open the gate! If you don’t want to finish the job, we will!”

Cullen raised a hand to the sharp line of pain that cut above his lip. His fingers came away bloody. He had spent the entire day pulling bodies out of buildings and clearing rubble. He had been trying to help these people. He had barely slept. A crippling headache a little too close to lyrium withdrawal pounded sharp needles of pain behind his eyes. He didn’t even have the energy for anger.

A templar raced forwards to shield Cullen, but he indicted the man to return to the line. If the mob were so desperate for blood, they should see it.

_Maker. I am tired._

The sound of his sword leaving his sheath was echoed by the squad behind him. Even with the portcullis between them, the first few layers of citizens flinched back. Makeshift clubs and cheap blades were a poor match for templar steel.

The tip of Cullen’s blade pointed out towards the city. “Kirkwall is in flames.” He made no effort to hide his building irritation. “More death will not change that. You will find no revenge here. Go home. Rebuild.”

“This isn’t _revenge,_ ” exclaimed a woman near the front. She brandished her torch around her, illuminating weary faces. “We want to feel safe! How can we when the mages are still here?”

“The culprit is _dead,_ sent to the void by your own Champion,” he snapped, finding a trace of anger from some untapped reserve. “Trust us to do our duty and keep you safe without resorting to murder.”

The muttering in the crowd grew to disbelieving shouts. They pushed closer to the portcullis, as if they could bring it down by the sheer weight of their numbers.

“The Grand Cleric was killed by a mage. You call that protection?” called an incredulous voice.

The pain of that accusation was like being kicked by a pride demon. Here was the condemnation he had expected to face every time he went back into Kirkwall. “A mistake we are attempting to repay,” he forced out. “But the Templar Order is sworn to protect mages as much as non-mages.” Cullen stepped right up to the portcullis, sword held at the ready. “If necessary, we will answer with steel. If the _innocent_ mages here feel the need to defend their lives against an angry mob, I do not find myself inclined to hold them back.”

The mob shifted uneasily. There were a few aggressive shouts from the back, but the leaders seemed more reluctant. The mob might have greater numbers, but only the fearless or the mad were willing to face the Chantry’s elite soldiers in combat.

Cullen nodded to one who seemed a linchpin of the mob. He was far too tired for diplomacy. “Well? Are you as willing to die for your convictions as I am? If you are, I would happily face you now,” he snapped. He spun his sword in an easy loop designed to impress. He might not want to kill innocent civilians, but none of them could match the ability of someone who had pushed themselves for thirteen years to be the best of an already elite group. “You might succeed in pushing through, but we will kill far more of you than you kill of us. Then who will you turn to when you need aid?”

Her club drooped, and she seemed suddenly eager to hide the makeshift weapon behind her back. There was more shuffling. The woman retreated back through the crowd, pulling a small core with her. Patches of the mob thinned out in response to her departure, but not enough.

His anger sputtered out as quickly as it had arrived. “Maker. Please. Go home,” he called out tiredly. “I’ve had enough bloodshed for a lifetime.”

A resolute few stayed on, but no more rocks flew at them. Cullen turned his back on the crowd with a weary exhalation and sheathed his sword. With his back to them, the sound of their angry mutters almost blended into the continuous sound of distant waves lapping against the Gallows.

“Return to the barracks,” he ordered the templars lined up behind the portcullis. “They won’t be able to get through the gates. Maker willing they are as tired as we are.”

They shuffled off, leaving only Lovett and the nervous recruit behind.

Lovett breathed a sigh of relief. The tremor in his hands could have been from tension as much as his burgeoning lyrium shakes. “I suppose that’s an improvement, Ser.” He sheathed his sword. “But would you really have attacked the mob?”

Cullen paused to consider the question. They had seemed the right words at the time, but would he have said the same with more time to marshal his thoughts? Piling bloodshed on top of more bloodshed would have added yet more to his nightmares, but he realised he wouldn’t have changed a word.

“If they had attacked first, yes,” he replied, finally. “We cannot stand aside and let the mages be murdered by an angry mob in the name of revenge, whether they were guilty or not. Not and still call ourselves templars.”

“I suppose that is what we teach the recruits,” Lovett said contemplatively. “Can’t say it’s what Knight-Commander Meredith would have done.”

“Knight-Commander Meredith is dead,” Cullen replied curtly. Impossible to forget that with that lyrium figure still smouldering and humming at the far end of the courtyard. Maker knew if it that grating sound would ever be quiet.

“Yes, Ser.” Lovett’s response was unfailingly polite, wary of Cullen’s sudden burst of displeasure. “By your leave, I’ll keep Recruit Harris company and inform you if there’s any change.”

Cullen exhaled out the anger his guilt had created. _Maker grant me peace._

Somehow, he managed a sleep free enough of nightmares that he woke four hours later with the dawn. He allowed himself the brief luxury of believing he might actually have done the right thing the previous night. More likely he had been too tired even for dreams. The single vial of lyrium did little to wash away the lingering fatigue and the first hints of a returning headache.

When he returned to the main courtyard, the mob had thinned out further, but a few surly thugs lurked where they thought they’d be out of view. Few enough that templars could leave, but enough that he wasn’t comfortable opening the Gallows for the day. He turned right around and marched back to Templar Hall. If he intended to make up for past crimes, that meant honesty. Trust might be more than he could manage quite yet, but honesty was a step he could accept.

The few mages left found it difficult to settle in their new quarters. It was better than the dark tomb the Circle had become, but they were surrounded by tired and bitter templars who had lost friends. They were less than happy to see mages invade the sanctity of Templar Hall. Cullen had offered the mages the use of the internal courtyards to find their own privacy with only a token templar presence in the corridors outside. Maker knew what he would do in the long term.

They looked nervous when he entered their little island of peace, as if they expected their new-found freedoms to be revoked as quickly as they had been granted. The voice insisting mages were not to be trusted might be quieter, but it was still a persistent buzz at the back of his mind. _You_ _’re not a jailer,_ he reminded himself. The iron fist of the Gallows had led to tragedy just as easily as the leniency of Kinloch Hold. Clearly there was no right way. Maker knew his own path was just as likely to be doomed to failure, but he could only follow what flawed instincts he had.

“Knight-Captain,” offered their spokeswoman, “I hope there’s no problem.”

“I will be keeping the Gallows locked down for the next few days,” he began. He held up a hand to cut off the protest. “There are the remnants of a mob outside the gates. Believe me, this is only to keep you safe.”

She eyed him dubiously. “You want us to trust you, Knight-Captain?”

He held a hand out to the courtyard’s exit. “You’re free to see for yourself.”

She followed him into the main courtyard, almost managing to hide her discomfort. She hadn’t even been an Enchanter, a position in which she could have become jaded to interacting with templars every day. The commanding officers of a Circle were remote overseers to the common mages. Even for a Loyalist, the prospect of drawing attention to themselves from on high was a daunting one. Now she was thrust into a position of responsibility she’d never asked for. Cullen found himself sympathising.

Her shoulders slumped when she saw the angry clusters of people outside the gate. “They must know we had nothing to do with the chaos in Kirkwall,” she said forlornly. “We’re loyal Andrastians.”

Cullen stopped her from moving any closer to the portcullis. A few sharp-eyed people in the crowd had caught sight of her and the citizens had grown more agitated. It wouldn’t take much for a mob to reform. Even a thrown stone could kill, and there was a risk they held weapons more dangerous than that. “They don’t care. They have seen the chantry destroyed by the magic they were taught to fear.”

“The Chantry teaches you fear as well,” she replied distrustfully.

“The Chantry taught fear, but I learnt that lesson in a far different way,” Cullen said so quietly he wasn’t sure she even heard. His own shoulders slumped and his headache pounded a little harder. He was fumbling in the dark, trying to patch an infinite number of holes, most of his own making. He was tired of fear, tired of doubt. Just tired. He thought longingly of the additional vials of lyrium still waiting in his quarters. Just one more—

“You’re injured, Knight-Captain,” the mage said finally, turning her back on the Gallows’ entrance as if the danger could be so easily dismissed. Maybe for her it could be. In the security of a fortress, the greatest threat to them had been their guardians.

Cullen raised a hand to the cut and inspected the few spots of fresh blood. The infirmary were overloaded with the severely injured from the Order and Kirkwall. He’d done nothing more than wash and tend to it with an elfroot poultice before collapsing back in his bed. “It’s nothing. Some of the mob were less than happy when I refused to open the Gallows for them.”

“You stopped them,” she stated neutrally, still trying to get his measure. Before this week, they would never have even spoken. Maker knew what she believed after his six years serving as Meredith’s right hand.

“Of course,” Cullen responded emphatically. “We have a duty.”

“Thank you.”

Cullen cast a startled look at her. _You shouldn_ _’t be thanking me for something that we should always have been doing._ He held back from saying the words. This accord was a fragile thing that he didn’t want to break by reminding her of his failures.

“I have some skill in healing,” she offered.

Cullen fought back the visceral fear. The anger which that fear had created had blinded him for years.

“That won’t be necessary,” he replied with an evenness that belied the sudden racing of his heart. “It will serve as a reminder.”

She nodded with a touch of confusion, eyes flickering over his face, trying to read something behind the emotionless mask. Finally, her gaze slipped past him.

“Is that… Knight-Commander Meredith?” she whispered.

“It was,” Cullen replied curtly, suddenly hearing the song that had almost blended into the melody of the lyrium in his blood.

“Sweet Andraste, I still can’t believe it’s true. You really did kill her.”

“The Champion killed her,” he corrected her uncomfortably.

The mage shook her head, ignoring the comment. “Lyrium, but contaminated somehow. You should get a tranquil to investigate. Maker knows how a mage would react to that much raw lyrium. And if it could do the same to any templar…” she shuddered.

Cullen nodded wearily. Another concern to add to the list towering over his head like the Gallows itself. “A sensible recommendation. I should have done so earlier.”

“You’ve had other problems,” she replied, her gaze drifting out towards the haze of dust over Kirkwall. “Perhaps I have misjudged you, Knight-Captain,” she said finally.

“I don’t believe you have, but something needed to change,” Cullen sighed.

She began a slow walk back to Templar Hall, and Cullen let her leave. With a city on the verge of collapse, there were far more important things than worrying what a single unsupervised mage would do in a secure fortress guarded by templars. _Something_ will _change._

**Five days after the chantry explosion - 18th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

Never had Cullen been so glad to see an approaching formation of the Templar Order. Bright standards of the Sword of Mercy hung above the trailing cloud of dust, their cheerful vibrancy incongruous against the gloom of Kirkwall. The gleaming Starkhaven templars were a stark contrast to the paltry delegation of worn Kirkwall templars greeting them. It was telling that a force at the tail end of a three day forced march looked energetic. Even before their Circle had burnt down, the Order in Starkhaven had never had the numbers to match Kirkwall’s status as the centre of Templar might in the Free Marches. But now, with a decimated Guard and crippled Order, the force on their way was better than every templar that Kirkwall could muster.

Rylen was perhaps five years older than Cullen, but he was perfectly polite when the Starkhaven templars arrived. He saluted precisely and removed his helm to reveal a set of distinctive tattoos that must have infuriated the Chantry Mothers. His face was masked with the expression that Cullen recognised from his own years of service. The impassivity that hid personal opinions behind a mask of professionalism so necessary for command.

“Knight-Captain Cullen, Knight-Commander Carsten sends his compliments. We are at your service,” he offered in that distinctive Starkhaven brogue. He took in the exhausted Kirkwallers with a quick glance that held a trace of concerned sympathy. “You look like you need it.”

The measuring look he cast over Cullen was familiar. One that tried to judge what kind of templar assisted in the murder of their Knight-Commander. One that tried to guess how much of Knight-Commander Meredith could be found in him. Cullen had loyally followed her direction for years, but he had no desire to give the impression of following in her footsteps. If that diminished him in the eyes of his fellow Knight-Captain, so be it. They hadn’t seen her madness as he had.

He extended a hand for the Knight-Captain to clasp. After six years in the isolation of command, it was almost strange to finally be on equal footing with someone again. “I wish we could meet in better circumstances, Knight-Captain Rylen. But Kirkwall is glad to have you.”

“Thank you,” he replied neutrally. “You won’t recall, but I was in Kirkwall five years ago. I was a Knight-Lieutenant back then, but I accompanied the delegation that brought our homeless mages to the Gallows.”

“It seems that only trouble brings you to the city. Although frankly,” Cullen sighed, “there was little to recommend Kirkwall even before now.”

A brief smirk broke Rylen’s professional cool. “If it weren’t for that Fereldan accent, I’d swear you were a Starkhavener.” He rolled his shoulders and his expression sobered. The pall of smoke and dust over Kirkwall framed Cullen like a shroud. “The Free Marches stand together when it matters. I am at your disposal. We can start right away.”

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen exhaled. His pounding headache and low lying nausea still lingered, but the words were a relief. “The highest priority is to rescue people still trapped in collapsed buildings across Hightown. The Guard are handling the riots. If we could calm the populace, the mages could assist in clearing debris and extinguishing fires.”

Rylen raised an eyebrow. “Not a suggestion I’d expect to hear from a commanding officer of the Gallows, if you don’t mind my saying. Our mages were not too happy to be sent here. I suppose they died in the annulment.” Now, finally, there was a hint of something behind the professionalism. Accusation.

“We- I have made some mistakes in fulfilling my duty as a templar. It’s something I intend to rectify.”

“Templar after my own heart,” Rylen replied sombrely with a nod that said he’d decided something.

With the Starkhaveners, they had half again as many templars as they had had the previous day. Suddenly, the challenge ahead of them was only overwhelming instead of insurmountable. The reinforcements threw themselves into the relief efforts, Rylen at their head. Even through the flurry of work, Cullen found himself glad to have the assistance of the pragmatic Knight-Captain. It was a blessed relief to share the load with someone who knew what needed to be done without requiring orders.

It was impossible yet to gauge how his fellow Knight-Captain judged his actions. Cullen knew all too well that the perfect professionalism could hide a host of doubts. Lyrium masked emotion far too well. But if he was to be condemned, he would face the verdict with the belief that he’d done the only thing he could.

**Six days after the chantry explosion - 19th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

Immense pyres for the dead belched thick black smoke into the air, cutting down the sunlight to a faint glow and masking the smaller fires that hadn’t yet been extinguished. There would inevitably be more pyres. Kirkwall’s skyline would be wreathed in smoke for days to come. Cullen was beginning to believe that the taste of ashes and death would never leave him.

Templars were ordained, but under normal circumstances, none of them would have been permitted to perform anything more than the services of a Chantry Brother or Sister. These were hardly normal circumstances, and so every templar suddenly found themselves pushed into the role of priests. The people of the city were desperate for the comforts offered by faith and had only templars to turn to.

The same catastrophe that had allowed Meredith to invoke the Right of Annulment without Chantry input now handed Cullen a responsibility he could never have wanted. He was obliged to lead the funereal services for the Kirkwall dead himself. As the commanding officer of a chapter of templars, he had become the highest Andrastian authority in Kirkwall, as meaningless as that was. A mere Knight-Captain of the Templar Order was a poor substitute for the Chantry priesthood. Another weight on his shoulders.

The riots might have calmed to isolated pockets of chaos, but the tension in the massed crowds of the bereaved that gathered where the chantry had once stood was palpable. Cullen felt accusing eyes on him throughout, from the dead as much as the living.

There was a smaller pyre burning in the Gallows too, in an isolated courtyard reserved for the purpose. Not all the dead amongst the templars and mages had family to claim the bodies. The life of a templar was a lonely one that required utter devotion to the Order and a renouncement of external ties. More disheartening was how many families had refused to acknowledge the existence of their mage children, even now that they were dead.

Unlike the pyre in Kirkwall, this was a service he would have demanded he be allowed to lead, as he’d led others of its kind before. These were people for whom he’d been responsible. It was only right that he preside over their final rites.

The pyre made a forlorn sight, burning in that stark courtyard with an audience of the pitiful few templars and fewer mages left alive. The mages’ unofficial spokesperson offered a heartfelt thanks at giving the dead mages a proper ceremony and allowing her and the others to attend. Her words left Cullen sick with a new wave of guilt. She should have been cursing him to the void. They shouldn’t have needed a ceremony for the dead in the first place.

He didn’t sleep at all that night. Instead, he watched over the pyres, vigilant over their deaths if not their lives. Every other templar and mage slipped away, Rylen last of all, until he was left alone with the flames. Even they weren’t enough to warm his cold hands. He transitioned smoothly from the Prayer for the Departed to the remainder of the Canticle of Transfigurations to the Canticle of Trials, praying he could earn his Mercy. Neither the flames nor the sword were his yet. Where could he find his faith when everyone in the city looked to him for that duty?

Only dawn’s light stopped him, compelling him to leave with the first squads to rotate back into Kirkwall. There was always something that needed to be done. Maybe that would help fight the ghosts that even the Chant failed to dispel.

**Seven days after the chantry explosion - 20th Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

With a location so close to the chantry, the Viscount’s Keep could never have escaped unharmed. Half the grand concourse leading to the Keep had been crushed under the weight of one of the grand towers. The whole aspect facing the chantry had subsided, leaving rooms exposed. Inside, a gaping hole in the ceiling illuminated the throne room with a weak beam of sunlight. The throne stood tall and tellingly empty at the far end of the hall, presiding over a crowd of Kirkwall’s agitated nobility.

A hapless noble found himself pushed to the front of a crowd. His expression flickered between haughty condescension and wary caution at the forbidding delegation of templars gathered in the hall. Not too long ago, the nobility of Kirkwall had seen the Order as Meredith’s enforcers, or glorified guardsmen idling in Circles. The grim templars in front of them bore little resemblance to that.

Cullen gave a curt gesture to take in himself and the templars with him. “We have better things to be doing. Speak.”

The noble’s mouth worked, as if he was attempting to find the right words. “It has been a week and you haven’t yet deigned to consult with us. Knight-Commander Meredith wou-”

“Knight-Commander Meredith is dead,” he interjected flatly. Say it often enough, and he might not feel like she was watching over his shoulder at every moment.

Whispered words were passed to his ear. The noble sniffed. “Are we to presume that you will be assuming the stewardship of Kirkwall?” he questioned.

“ _This_ is what you summoned me here to discuss?” Cullen shook his head with disgust. “The Templar Order has no say in how a city is run. I will not replace Knight-Commander Meredith as steward.”

This time, the noble didn’t bother to wait for input from the crowd. He laughed incredulously. “That hasn’t been true for years. But you elect to renounce your stewardship _now_ , with half of Kirkwall in flames? If not the Order, then who will lead us?”

“A properly elected Viscount,” Cullen replied angrily. “Knight-Captain Rylen and I will continue to coordinate our efforts with Guard Captain Vallen, but you shouldn’t require the Order to tell you what needs to be done. This meeting is over. Make your own decisions.”

He marched his delegation out of Viscount Hall, indifferent to the gasps of consternation. Perhaps he had made enemies. Perhaps Meredith would have handled the politics better than he had. The Order would focus on the concerns that belonged to them.

They had barely pushed through the throne room’s doors before the ground rumbled beneath their feet. Cullen exchanged a short glance with Karellian beside him. The man’s perpetual look of irritation was gone, replaced by alarm. They sprinted the rest of the way out of the Keep, dodging debris that no one had had a chance to clear.

Another rumble rocked them as they entered the Viscount’s square. A pane of glass shattered in a nearby building. Shards of glass joined the debris already littering the ground. The streets fell still again.

“Andraste’s flaming sword,” cursed Karellian, “What was-”

A snap echoed through the air. Jagged fissures shot up the side of a building across the square. The weak breeze fell still, as if the world was holding its breath. Then, unceremoniously, as if it was the most natural event in Thedas, the entire building slumped into a pile of rubble. One moment there, and the next, a new hole gaped in Kirkwall’s skyline. Half the square subsided with the building, dragged into the widening pit. Dust was thrown up into the air, turning the dim sunlight a muddy shade of brown.

Cullen’s heart stopped, as frozen in shock as the few people on the street. There was nothing but hushed silence for a long moment. Then the first screams started.

_Embrace the Light. Weather the storm. Endure._

**Eight days after the chantry explosion - 21st Guardian 9:37 Dragon**

Half the city was covered in a funereal shroud of dust as building after building collapsed. The source soon became appallingly obvious. Hightown perched on the eponymous jet cliffs of Kirkwall, pierced with the complex lacework of tunnels and passageways that stretched from Hightown’s mansions right down to below the level of the bay.  Kirkwall’s cliffs were barely more than a hollow shell, irreparably weakened by the explosion. Barely a week after the explosion, and collapses had propagated through Darktown until the weight of rock above was too much to bear. Buildings were brought down on street after street. Aftershocks rumbled across the city. Secondary explosions rippled through the tunnels as unused and leftover explosives in remote storerooms were triggered. Half of Darktown was rendered uninhabitable.

Thousands of displaced citizens  — hollow-eyed and desperate —  were moved to makeshift camps just outside Kirkwall, leaving countless streets utterly devoid of life. It was as if the very fabric of the city had been damaged by what it had suffered, leaving it as much of a tomb as the Gallows.

The sheer impossible magnitude of the task blossomed to an unimaginable scale. Only Starkhaven had responded with anything more than useless sympathy. There hadn’t been a whisper from the Chantry itself. They had to help an entire city rebuild, with less than two hundred templars and half as many of the Guard.

It was more than obvious that the Veil had been scarred by the tragedy too. It had already been weakened by long years of rampant blood magic. Now it was dangerously thin. They might have killed all the abominations, but spirits still crept across from the Fade. It had been more than a week since the explosion. With Rylen’s efficient assistance, they’d saved more than he believed possible. But whatever optimism the Starkhaveners' arrival had ignited had been extinguished. Now it was miraculous if they found anyone still alive. If they were lucky, they arrived before a spirit found its way into the bodies of those who had died in desperate darkness under piles of broken debris. If they weren’t lucky, shrieking corpses dragged their way into the light.

The children were the worst.

~~~~

Cullen knew every detail of the antechamber. Kneeling in the cold, in the unchanging light cast by the magical barrier, the antechamber was more familiar than the name he sometimes couldn’t remember.

This was the only reality he could recall. Amongst the infinite visions that battered at his mind, the antechamber was the one constant. A barrier there was no point in trying to break. Creeping rot on smooth flagstones. Piles of bodies, decomposed until he couldn’t recognise the faces. He couldn’t smell them any more, but they were there, always at the edges of his vision, even when he focused on the one clear corner near the door.

He fought for the Chant in a mind that was rapidly fraying at the edges. How many times had he repeated the same words, forgetting where he was, starting again?

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_

_I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm._

_I shall endure._

_I shall endure._

_I shall endure!_

At some point, the silent prayer over hands folded in prayer became a mutter, then a sobbing plea to the Maker. The same words shouted time and again to override the sound of screams that probably weren’t his own. Hopefully weren’t his own. He couldn’t remember what words came next. He didn’t care.

With his eyes fogged by tears, it took longer than it should have for a touch of wrongness to make itself known. As familiar as the antechamber was, there was something right about seeing bloodstained sandstone in that one clear corner.

He closed his eyes and struggled to regain control of his erratic breathing. As far as visions offered by the demon went, this might seem harmless, but even the subtlest visions could ensnare him forever. Perhaps the demon had finally recognised the reality to which he retreated when false visions of comfort were presented to him.

“Leave me be, demon,” he whispered with a throat scraped raw.

When he opened his eyes, the patch had expanded to take up a wider expanse of the antechamber’s corner. Between one blink and the next, Meredith appeared, framed by the rough sandstone. Scarlet veins pulsed beneath her skin, shedding an unnatural red light to complement the lurid purple cast by the barrier. The familiar presence of a templar Knight-Commander he’d never met seemed as natural as the expanding patch of sandstone.

“To whom do you owe your loyalty, Cullen?”

“The Maker and the Templar Order,” he answered quickly, instinctively. An easy question they asked every recruit.

She pushed the corpse of a mage to the side with a foot and stalked to the barrier. “Really, Knight-Captain?” she questioned disbelievingly, red light leaking from her mouth as she spoke. “Because it appears to me that you have allied yourself with an apostate. You didn’t even have the honesty to kill me yourself to hide your mistakes.”

“I trusted you,” he retorted, his own mind overriding the memory of a scared boy. “You were a Knight-Commander of the Templar Order. You should have been beyond reproach. But you were mad. You had to be stopped.”

She knelt until her scarlet eyes were level with Cullen’s. “If you thought that was true, you should have stopped me long ago, not waited for an apostate to do it for you once it was far too late to make a difference.” She stood and tossed a disdainful look over her shoulder. “But you knew I was right.”

She brandished her sword and slashed through the far wall of the antechamber. The smooth stone parted to reveal a dark night time scene. Black cliffs towered over the smooth waters of a bay. Countless buildings crowded right up to the edges, overlooking a sprawl of city that nestled at the base of the cliffs. An blocky edifice loomed from the waters, casting black shadows far further than the building’s size should have allowed. Knight-Templar Cullen didn’t know this place, but Knight-Captain Cullen knew it intimately.

“You believe there was no justification for the annulment? The First Enchanter himself turned to blood magic. Just as I said. The people demanded retribution for the crimes magic perpetrated against them. Just as I predicted. Magic destroyed Kirkwall. Just as I feared.” Her smile became melancholy. The red light faded to leave Meredith as he’d first known her. Driven, dedicated, and a commanding officer to whom he’d devoted all his loyalty. “Was I mad, or was I right?”

“You were mad,” he whispered with wavering conviction, turning his head down to hands still clasped in prayer. “I was blind. I should have seen that your actions only compounded the problems in Kirkwall. If I had acted sooner, we might have avoided it all.”

“ _If_ you had acted sooner,” a familiar mocking voice whispered in his ear. “But you did not. You thought you could do better in this new city, but you are the same weak boy you have always been.” He flinched as a sleek purple arm extended from over his shoulder and pointed towards the darkened cityscape. Desire’s breath whispered over his ear. “Submit and you could save them all.”

“No, I cannot. Leave me be, demon,” he whispered. Knight-Captain Cullen fell away, leaving the scared boy trapped in an eternity of horrors.

“How disappointing,” the demon purred in his ear. “Their lives are on your head.”

Twin columns of red light punched up from the cliffs of Hightown and the brooding bulk of the Gallows, wiping out vast swathes of cityscape.

“No,” he gasped. “Maker have mercy.”

“You only have yourself to blame,” Meredith snapped. She rested a hand on the magical prison. Where her palm lay, baleful red leaked into the lurid purple of the barrier. A patch dissolved beneath her gentle touch. “How weak must a templar be that they are unable to address such obvious corruption?”

Flames rose higher, consuming Kirkwall in a towering inferno. A pyre to rival Andraste’s. Every detail was presented with crystalline clarity. The hungry flames consumed everything. Fleeing men, women, and children. Buildings. Even the air itself. Templars killed mages and mages killed templars, oblivious to the fire licking all around them. But he was safe, trapped in his prison with the taste of blood and rot in his mouth. The only survivor in a city of the dead.

“No! No!” He pounded on the humming barrier until his fists were bloody pulp inside their gauntlets, calling to lyrium that wouldn’t respond. “My life for theirs!”

Desire smiled. Pointed teeth flashed a brilliant white. Cullen reflexively flinched back to the opposite side of the barrier as Desire took a step to join him in his prison. The barrier parted and reformed seamlessly around the demon, as Cullen had so often prayed it would do for him. Flickers of reddish lightning played across the demon’s body as it raised its hand and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to meet its eyes. Its face drew closer until all he could see was the reflected light of a city in flames. Close enough to feel the demon’s unnatural heat as it pressed its body against his suddenly unarmoured form. A small mocking smile crossed her face as he futilely tried to pull away from that steel grip.

“Too late, my sweet templar. They are all dead already.”

The demon pushed him back hard enough that he tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs. It planted a foot on his chest and forced him to stay down. The gore that carpeted the flagstones soaked through his already filthy robes, coating him in a slick layer that lay in a cold crust against his skin.

Her laugh was cold and beautiful and utterly lacking in humanity. Uldred’s deeper, crueller laugh joined hers. Then Beval’s cheerful chuckle, warped until it was barely recognisable. Those of every mage and templar who’d been dragged kicking and screaming into the Harrowing chamber. Then those of every broken body in the room. Every dead mage. Every dead templar. Every one of the tranquil abused by Alrik. Every dead citizen they’d dragged out of the ruins of Kirkwall. The derisive laughter and pleading screams filled his mind until concious thought wasn’t possible. The humming barrier enclosed him in a coffin of light, flickering between purple and red.

The sudden silence was so abrupt that it left him deaf. Meredith’s cold tones were crystal clear. “You should have stayed in Kinloch Hold. Now you must live with your failures, Knight-Captain.”

“No matter,” Desire said gently, the cruel beauty of her voice weaving through Meredith’s words. “As I said, I will always be here for you.”

The demon crouched over him, knees planted on either side of him. Its lambent eyes met his with a look of unreadable inhumanity. A taloned hand caressed his face and moved inexorably downwards. His heart shuddered to a halt in his chest. Sheer terror froze him as still as the dead city before them.

His yell could have woken the dead. He lurched from his bed and stumbled blindly over books scattered by a desperate smite called down in his sleep.

It wasn’t until the lyrium had seared down his raw throat and drowned all emotion beneath a soothing hum that he realised his face was wet.

His hands clenched, crushing the vial in a fist. The pain as shards of glass embedded themselves in his bare palm was lost behind the sweet chorus of lyrium that deadened everything but his shame.

When he opened his hand, it was dripping in blood. Small droplets of lyrium beaded in the seams of his palm. Even then, the pain was a dull, distant thing. Instead, all he felt was the cold fire of lyrium filtering into his blood through the cuts. Two drained vials on the shelf. A third in countless fragments in his hand.

Try as he might, it wasn’t the Chant that sprang to mind first, only a desperate plea for forgiveness.

_Failure._

~~~~

He took two vials the next day, searing away emotion to leave only the lyrium song. Templars had a reputation for cold logic and dispassionate behaviour anyway, and he’d never been known for his affability. The impossible task seemed smaller, more manageable, in the cool blue clarity of lyrium. It kept him from losing control in his dreams that night.

Two vials the day after that too, to keep him lucid whilst he worked with Rylen and the Guard Captain in leading the relief effort. Then another vial when he finally returned to his quarters at night. He had barely slept for the past week and a half. Responsibility for his subordinates was enough to keep Cullen from working himself to death, although it was a harder decision than it should have been. But he _had_ to sleep, or there would be no one to coordinate what was left of the Order. And if even the additional lyrium wasn’t enough to mask the nightmares, well, it was a reasonable substitute for rest in the short term.

Until the Maker chose to put an end to the farce, he had no choice but to drag himself up each time he was kicked down, picking up a few more scars along the way. A little more lyrium would patch the cracks until he could ignore them again.

He needn’t have worried about being taken to task. The lone overworked Sister left in the Gallows didn’t even bother to confirm that he had once been given blanket approval for a double ration. With so many templars dead, they had more than enough lyrium for now. She certainly didn’t have the confidence to question a senior officer of the Order.

Guard Captain Vallen didn’t pass comment on the deepening purple circles that ringed his eyes and the hollowing cheeks under sharp cheekbones. No one could question how hard the Order were working, and the City Guard were hardly better off.

Knight-Captain Rylen didn’t breathe a word either. But his sharp gaze said he had noticed and could guess the reason.

It was hard to break the pattern of six years of isolation. The chain of command allowed him to confide in Rylen, if no one else, but it had been a long six years of isolation. He wasn’t willing to admit his weaknesses to a man he’d known only a few days. The twin burdens of lyrium and nightmares were dark unspoken secrets of service in the Order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of vignettes in this and the next chapter. There's a lot of time to pass through in the leadup to Inquisition. Because of that, they ended up being pretty long compared to my preferred chapter length.
> 
> Given that this chapter deals with the immediate aftermath of the chantry explosion, it’s pretty much all miserable (although this fic has hardly been cheerful to start with). Things are definitely going to get worse before they get better. Kirkwall is still recovering by the time you get to Trespasser, seven years later, so it must have been absolutely devastated by the explosion.


	37. Walking into the Abyss with Open Eyes

**One month after the chantry explosion - Drakonis 9:37 Dragon**

Cullen offered a bleak look to the envoy that had caught him leaving the Viscount’s keep. The chantry hadn’t sent a single message for an entire month. Now this. He was sure he should have felt more than this weary lack of surprise, but three vials of lyrium swam through his blood today, cradling him in a soothing blue glow, masking his emotions behind the sweet melody.

He fingered the bright golden seals on the letter. No one would dare forge a letter like this. The envoy certainly looked like one from the Order. His bright red tunic with the ornate golden embroidery of a Chantry sunburst over his heart and a Sword of Mercy on the opposite breast represented someone serving with high command in the White Spire. The Knight-Corporal stationed a polite distance away looked like exactly the sort to be assigned as a bodyguard for bureaucrats, right down to the haughty looks he exchanged with Cullen’s own more hardened escort. Even so…

“Surely you’re not serious. There must be a mistake.”

“Not at all, Ser,” the envoy replied. Perhaps it was only Cullen’s disbelief that made it seem that the envoy was emphasising his Orlesian accent. “I have arrived direct from Val Royeux by ship.”

Cullen skimmed the elegantly penned missive again. The curious eyes of a few petitioners on their way to the keep passed over them, but for once, there was nothing to distract him from rereading the letter.

 

> _Knight-Captain (Acting Knight-Commander) Cullen Rutherford,_
> 
> _I was most distressed to hear the news out of Kirkwall. I am delighted to hear that the Circle_ _’s rebellion was quashed. Rest assured that there will be no retribution regarding Knight-Commander Meredith’s death. It appears she was no longer fit for the position she held. Your actions were the only reasonable ones given the situation._
> 
> _Unfortunately, the news has triggered unrest in previously-loyal Circle across Thedas. There is whispering in the White Tower that a vote for independence from the Chantry may be called by the College of Enchanters.  As such, the Order cannot afford to split its focus. Therefore, it is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that your request for support cannot be fulfilled._
> 
> _Regarding your second request: given your heroism in Kinloch Hold and more recently in Kirkwall, I see no reason to dispatch a replacement Knight-Commander when there is a member of the Order more than capable of taking that role themselves. I have received a missive to a similar note from the Guard Captain of Kirkwall. Given the circumstances, we cannot offer the ceremony usually associated with promotion to such senior rank. However, you may now consider your position as Knight-Commander of the Kirkwall chapter and Circle to be permanent. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Knight-Commander Cullen. I have no doubt you will continue to serve the Order and the Chantry to the best of your ability for many years to come. I look forward to welcoming you in Val Royeaux to formally convey the title upon you when this brief unrest has been settled._
> 
> _Walk in the Maker's Light,_
> 
> _Knight-Vigilant Artur Trentwatch_

“Maker have mercy.” A trickle of nausea wormed through three vials’ worth of lyrium. _Heroism? That unwelcome word again._ And a recommendation from Guard Captain Vallen was disconcerting to say the least. “If I don’t want to accept the promotion? The White Spire must have available Knights-Commander. Even a Knight-Captain with enough years of service to warrant promotion. Surely there are candidates more suited to the position.”

Say, candidates who didn’t have his history and had served for more than a paltry eight years. There had been younger Knights-Commander. Often, although not always, battlefield promotions during Exalted Marches, which might be vaguely comparable to his own situation. But the youngest serving Knight-Commander in Thedas today was ten years older than him. Most had served as templars longer than he’d been alive.

The envoy looked nonplussed. Quite possibly, no templar had ever even considered rejecting commands from the Knight-Vigilant. “Your pardon, Ser?”

“Never mind,” he said irritably. More fool him for thinking that he had a choice. “So we will receive no support. No funds. Nothing. Meanwhile, half of Kirkwall is in ruins,” at that, he raised hand to take in the battered concourse around them, as if the envoy had somehow managed to miss the lingering devastation on his way up to Hightown, “most of my men are dead or are deserting in the chaos, we haven't enough mages to warrant calling them a Circle, the death toll in Kirkwall is still rising, and the chantry is _gone_.”

The three vials of lyrium this morning suddenly didn’t seem like enough to keep himself up and working. There was always more work than hours in the day, and his reward for requesting support was to be given a title he didn’t want.

The envoy still looked thrown by the clearly unexpected reaction from Cullen. “I’m afraid so, Knight-Commander. The Chantry believes it must consolidate resources. Rest assured that Kirkwall’s chantry will be rebuilt when the unrest amongst the mages has been settled. Only a few more weeks, I should imagine, then resources will become available.” He tried to recover some of his composure with an ingratiating smile. “Knight-Vigilant Trentwatch believes you’ve done well so far and has the utmost confidence you will continue to do so.”

“We’re just about making do. What funds we have will not last without continued support from the Chantry. ‘Well’ is not the word I would use,” he finished with glacial cold.

The envoy looked unnerved for a moment before recovering his composure. “Nonetheless, Ser,” he replied with an easy shrug that said he wasn’t too bothered with the problem, as long as it wasn’t his. “Oh, I almost forgot. Unfortunately, a member of my escort stumbled across the body of a courier for the Templar Order.” He handed over a pair of letters stained with dust and spots of water.

Cullen leaned against one of the few pillars not left as a ragged stump and looked up to the clouded skies above. “Andraste’s grace. The Maker might as well spit in my face.” His letters to the Knight-Vigilant and the Seekers requesting their assistance with Meredith. No wonder he hadn’t heard anything. Of course the response to Meredith’s request for the Right of Annulment had arrived weeks ago. Denied until more evidence could be presented. As if that did any good to anyone now.

The envoy looked scandalised. He exchanged a look with his bodyguard as if in commentary on the coarseness of Fereldan and Free Marcher templars. “I can deliver the missives for you on my return, if you’d like.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” Cullen replied severely. “There’s no need.”

There had been rumours in the Gallows in the months after his arrival from Kinloch Hold that there had been the suggestion he was to be rewarded with a promotion to Knight-Commander. As if failing to do anything but survive meant people believed him worthy of such authority.

Three vials were definitely not enough.

**Two months after the chantry explosion - Cloudreach 9:37 Dragon**

Almost two months after his first visit, Cullen found himself summoned to the Viscount’s Keep again. There was more than enough temptation to refuse, but with the city a tiny step further back from the knife edge it had teetered on, there was no excuse to be found. Half of Darktown was impassable and countless Hightown estates had subsided into the honeycomb of tunnels beneath them. But the recovery effort was a long-term process now, rather than the moment to moment desperation it had been in the previous, interminable weeks.

The vast hole still gaped over the throne room, revealing a patch of clouded sky. Nobles gathered below as if there wasn’t the imminent threat of rain ruining their finery. The nobility of Kirkwall were no less stubborn than the citizens trying to rebuild in the streets below. Avoid looking too close, and it was almost possible to imagine Kirkwall could move on from the tragedy.

The seneschal slid up to Cullen with a patently false smile that vanished so quickly it was barely there. He flicked a look up and down Cullen in silent commentary on his decision to forgo full ceremonial armour. His armour and robes didn’t even indicate his new rank. There were more important concerns than requisitioning replacements.

“Knight-Commander Cullen. So glad you could come. Congratulations on your promotion,” he drawled before turning on Rylen. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, but I must assume you are Knight-Captain Rylen. Starkhaven has always been an exemplary friend to Kirkwall.”

Rylen blinked, unsure whether the welcome was sarcastic or not. “I’m here representing the Order, Seneschal,” he replied finally. “Not Starkhaven.”

“Of course,” the seneschal replied. He waved a hand to the dais. “As Chantry delegates, Kirkwall welcomes you.”

Cullen stalked up to the dais, no happier at being called on to stand in for a revered mother than he had been the previous times it had been required. The pair settled near the front of the crowd, dropping into comfortable at ease postures that could be held for hours, resigned to a long wait. The election of a new viscount was bound to be a tedious ceremony, but the excessively polite request for formal representation from the Order and the Chantry to commemorate Kirkwall’s first steps towards rebuilding couldn’t be refused.

The throne room doors creaked open behind them and Rylen cast a look over his shoulder. “Maker and his holy bride,” Rylen exclaimed in a loud whisper that drew stares from the nobles around them. “They can’t be serious.”

Cullen blinked and looked across the crowd of nobility. _This_ was their soon-to-be new viscount? This couldn’t have been a more obvious test of how far he intended to keep his promise of refusing any influence in the city’s affairs. Caught by the promise he had made, there was no choice but to let it slide.

Hawke strode up to the throne with a helpless shrug, ostentatious robes rising and falling with her shoulders, as she passed Cullen. Her look was somewhere between apologetic and that of a trapped animal. Perhaps Kirkwall’s champion had been politically manoeuvred just as he had been.

Cullen exchanged a short look with Rylen. He’d committed quite enough crimes without given the illusion of Chantry support for the election of an apostate to the position of viscount. With a nod, Rylen followed Cullen out of the throne room, striding through a crowd that parted smoothly around them.

The seneschal materialised in front of them before Cullen could push open the doors out of the throne room. “I had so hoped you might stay for the ceremony, Ser Cullen. Your previous Knight-Commander crowned the previous viscount herself, you know?”

“There’s no need for us to be here,” Cullen replied icily. “Do as you will.”

Cullen pushed past the seneschal and out of the throne room. He leaned against the wall just outside the door and massaged his brow. “Maker’s breath. I think they might be trying to drive another Knight-Commander mad.”

Without the stabilising influence of two vials of lyrium, no doubt it would already have happened. _Maker, it almost happened seven years ago. Perhaps this is a delayed sentence._

Rylen leaned across from Cullen and ran a hand over his face, stretching the sharp lines of the tattoos on his chin. They had pulled bodies out of collapsed tunnels and buildings. Killed abominations. Worked together to bring some semblance of life back to the city. It had built a kind of unspoken trust that meant that even the rank difference allowed a modicum of frank honesty to be shared.

“An apostate as viscount of Kirkwall. I knew Kirkwallers were a strange lot,” Rylen muttered finally. “Starkhaven’s Grand Cleric will have a fit. I know what the Chantry would tell us to do. ‘Magic must serve man and never rule over them’,” he quoted with the easy cadence of a veteran templar. “But is it wise under the circumstances, Knight-Commander?”

“I told Seneschal Bran it was a bad idea to antagonise you,” a voice called out from a little further down the corridor. Kirkwall’s Guard Captain looked as worn as Cullen felt, even if the shadows under her eyes were no match for his.

“Guard Captain,” Cullen acknowledged with a neutral nod. “Excuse us.”

“A moment please.” She folded her arms. “I know your templars far outmatch the Guard. But I’d advise you to consider the risks in marching on the Keep. You can ill afford more losses and Kirkwall was just starting to trust the Order again.”

Rylen was right. They both knew precisely what was required of them by the Chantry. But that was a path that would see more of his templars killed, leaving what was left of the Circle unprotected, and would sabotage the city’s relief efforts. Cullen exhaled and flicked up a brief prayer for guidance. _I_ _’ve been a Knight-Commander for barely a month, why not reserve these impossible challenges for later?_

“There is no chantry to give me orders and there is no Circle in which to confine her. At this point, I don’t see how an apostate viscount can be worse than anything else the city has suffered.”

The Guard Captain cocked her head in an attempt to read his expression. All the detachment granted by two vials of lyrium made that attempt impossible.

“She will continue to serve Kirkwall as she has in the past, Guard Captain,” Cullen warned. “Or I may have no choice.”

The Guard Captain rolled her eyes and grunted something that could be taken as acceptance. Rumour had it she had been married to a templar, the source of the shield she carried. The approved marriage of a member of the Order was a rare enough occurrence that the tale had spread like wildfire through the barracks. She would recognise the weight of the words to a templar. She bid them a curt farewell and pushed on into the throne room.

“So we leave her, Knight-Commander?” Rylen asked cautiously.

“We do,” Cullen confirmed. “She _is_ the city’s Champion, and a confirmed ally of the Order. Arguably, she is continuing to serve man as Viscount. An exception in the name of expediency is understandable. The best we can do is watch her.”

Rylen scrubbed his face tiredly. “I’m glad you’re the Knight-Commander. I’m not sure the Seekers will see it the same way.”

“The Seekers are probably already on their way at the head of an Exalted March,” Cullen replied with a smile that held little amusement. “One more crime on my head will hardly make a difference at this point.”

**Four months after the chantry explosion - Justinian 9:37 Dragon**

Cullen was no more comfortable in Meredith’s office now than he had been when he’d been forced to take it three months ago. Every time he was called Knight-Commander, it took a moment to realise they meant him. Surely someone would realise how farcical the whole situation was.

Claiming the Knight-Commander’s quarters was far harder. So easily taking all the trappings of his former Knight-Commander’s position after having assisted in her death had only reinforced his nightmares. Three months later, and they were still just barely suppressed by the double dose of lyrium he maintained. The discovery of the unimaginable luxury of a private balcony was one small comfort. Now there was no reason to startle passing templars as their Knight-Commander stalked past looking for light and open air.

Cullen couldn’t help but believe that the benefits of the most senior rank achievable by most templars were questionable at best, and far outweighed by the responsibilities. Where one problem faded, another appeared. Kirkwall was gradually limping back to life whilst the Gallows shuddered to a crashing halt.

There were enough tranquil left in the Gallows with a head for figures to tell Cullen something he had already assumed. Now it was impossible to ignore. They had spent huge sums in the relief efforts. Most of the Formari were dead or gone, even if people had the spare coin to buy such luxuries. What little manufacturing capability they had was focused on healing items that were given away for free. And the Kirkwall Chantry was hardly able to continue to provide funds from beyond the Veil. There might not be many left in the Gallows, and the Order might be sworn to poverty, but people needed to eat, they needed light to see by, and the templars under his command needed lyrium. He had already stopped providing templars’ stipends. The Circle’s coffers were dangerously empty. There was no money.

He eyed the sheet in front of him, then the serene tranquil. “We’re short by five _hundred_ gold? Maker give me strength. That’s a month’s supply of lyrium for a quarter of the templars here.”

Perversely, they had been helped by Seneschal Bran’s decision to make the Gallows the last stop for what little commerce was still running in Kirkwall. But now, even third-rate supplies were pushing the very limits of the Circle’s rapidly dwindling coffers. Cullen even found himself missing Orsino's harried competence. Without a First Enchanter, the task of managing the Gallows’ finances was yet another impossible one that fell to him.

The tranquil offered a smile he must have thought would be reassuring. “You will find that the calculations are quite accurate.”

“I have no doubt,” Cullen sighed. “Show the Orzammar representative in.”

The dwarf offered an insufferable smile when he entered Cullen’s office. Thousands of gold was spent a year on lyrium in the Gallows alone. Orzammar knew it had a captive market, and lyrium was priced accordingly.

“I have to admit,” began the dwarf, “I was surprised to receive a summons from you, Knight-Commander Cullen. Our contracts with the Gallows have been established for years. We already have your new numbers, so no more discussion should be necessary.”

“You might be aware that Kirkwall as a whole and the Gallows in particular are suffering… financial difficulties.”

A look of distaste crossed the dwarf’s face. “Let me save you the trouble of dancing around the topic. You want lyrium on credit.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. Surely it wouldn’t be this easy. “Yes.”

“I have a simple answer for you, Knight-Commander. Orzammar never has and never will provide lyrium on credit. It’s far too valuable and we’re justifiably wary of giving you something for free. It’s hard to call in an army’s debts.”

“We need that lyrium,” Cullen responded curtly.

“I’m quite aware of a templar’s _needs_ , Knight-Commander,” he replied with an uncomfortable stress on the word. His smile was more predatory than polite. “Surely you can find the gold for something so vital to your continued functioning.”

“Maker’s breath. These are extraordinary circumstances. We cannot continue to provide aid to Kirkwall without lyrium.”

The dwarf rolled his eyes. “Unlike you Chantry types, the Orzammar merchants I represent are not in the business of charity. The Merchants Guild is doing its part to help in Kirkwall. That does not extend to convincing Orzammar to give away its most valuable export for free.”

Suddenly Cullen felt uncomfortably aware of the liquid flowing through his veins. Two vials. Every. Single. Day. The Knight-Commander’s stipend he wasn’t receiving wouldn’t cover half that. This wasn’t like the loss of a crate’s worth for one month. Until Kirkwall’s chantry was re-established, there would be no more funding.

He looked down at the tranquil’s page of sums. They weren’t purchasing anything but the essentials, and those could only be reduced by so much. Lyrium was the highest expense by far and there was no substitute.

He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. He’d faced the nightmares free of lyrium’s assistance before. He could do so again. “Cut the shipment by a quarter.”

He didn’t need open eyes to recognise the gleeful triumph in the dwarf’s voice. “A pleasure doing business, Knight-Commander.”

“Good day,” he replied acidly. “I imagine you can find your own way out.”

Cullen opened his eyes and watched his hands where they lay flat on the scarred surface of Meredith’s desk. Perfectly still. But if he cut down to a three-quarter dose? His fingers twitched in nervous anticipation. He found himself wondering if he could justify maintaining his double dose in the face of rationing.

His fists clenched and a wave of nausea shivered through him. He wasn’t working night and day, relying on lyrium to keep himself standing until he came close to collapse. Much as he might want to, there were too many people relying on him to continue in that vein. Now it was just a crutch. A desperate attempt to hold himself together and hide the scars from everyone, including himself. _Or addiction,_ whispered a darker part of himself.

“Maker have mercy,” he muttered. “I am _not_ an addict.”

It was far more of a prayer than it should have been.

Down from two vials — and often three — a day to a three-quarter dose. Once, as a younger templar, the transition would have been borne without much difficulty. But eight years of continual lyrium use inevitably took its toll. Addict or not, his body needed what he gave it each day. The additional lyrium hadn’t sung quite as sweetly for a while anyway, but Cullen found himself feverish and shaking for weeks after the reduced dose came into effect. No one noticed. They were suffering much the same, to varying degrees. The Starkhaveners bore the load with grace, considering they were visitors to a foreign Circle. For others, it was harder to bear. Those templars who were known to be struggling received full doses, but Lovett hadn’t been the only templar in Kirkwall with incipient problems. Their numbers were cut further as older templars began to lose their battles with lyrium.

Without the lyrium fog, the nightmares returned as strong as they’d ever been, as if they’d been waiting for their chance to break through. It had been the same after he’d forsaken the double dose in Greenfell, he tried to reassure himself. It would fade. The reassurances were useless when he saw his shadowed eyes in the mirror after a broken night’s sleep.

The quarters reserved for visiting Knights-Captain were just far enough from the Knight-Commander’s quarters that he could hold the comfortable illusion that no one heard the shouts as he woke from another nightmare. Or worse, recognised when he called on templar abilities to fight the memories haunting his sleep. The return of Rylen’s concerned glances when he thought Cullen couldn’t see meant that a comfortable illusion was all it was.

**One year after the chantry explosion - Cloudreach 9:38 Dragon**

Time passed. The expected Exalted March didn’t make itself known. There hadn’t even been a delegation of Seekers. Despite the predictions from Val Royeux, unrest in Circles across Thedas continued to simmer beneath the surface. Mages were outraged that the actions of a single apostate could condemn an entire Circle to death. The prediction of a few weeks to quash the unrest stretched to a few months. Then a Circle revolted. Further restrictions were imposed once order was restored. The prediction stretched to a year. Too concerned with maintaining control over barely functioning Circles, no support was forthcoming for a city still struggling to pull itself away from the edge of the abyss. Starkhaven — the only major site of templar forces in the Free Marches without its own Circle —  remained the only place able to send support to Kirkwall.

In the absence of any Chantry input, the Order continued to assist in Kirkwall’s recovery. The city’s apostate viscountess didn’t burn the city down, much to Cullen’s relief. As it was, a semblance of normality was only now returning, one year later. Another catastrophe would kick the city screaming into the abyss it had narrowly escaped.

The Gallows barely limped along. Every month, they barely managed to pay for necessities. With so many templars engaged in Kirkwall, proper security in the Gallows was nigh impossible, but gradually, the trickle of fleeing mages slowed to a halt. The vast majority of the Circle itself remained off-limits until such a time as they could afford to reopen it. The mages found themselves sharing the same austere lifestyle as the the Order, in a unity enforced by enduring hardship. Without a reliable source of income, lyrium rationing was extended indefinitely. The shaking hands and feverishness faded. The nightmares didn’t. After a year holding the title, Cullen only felt that he was wearing a dead woman’s armour — with all the implied responsibilities and preconceptions — on the bad days. Sadly, with so many reminders of her legacy left behind, there were a few too many of those.

The malevolent presence of the Meredith’s mortal remains became something that the inhabitants of the Gallows could almost ignore. Almost. The remaining tranquil in the Gallows concluded there was nothing they could do to remove the statue. Quarantined in the main courtyard, it hummed to itself, leaking heat into the blackened stones at its feet. A permanent reminder of the dangers of grasping for too much power.

The first changes were barely noticeable. The gentle caress of spring sunshine glittered a little too vibrantly in the empty courtyard, too bright for sunshine against sandstone. Cordoned off as the area was, no one noticed a subtle heat and brightness that couldn’t be accounted for by the changing of the season.

Almost overnight, tiny flecks of red blossomed into visible finger-length spines that glittered malevolently, drinking in the sun’s heat and amplifying it. The flagstones around the figure’s knees were infested with a carpet of scarlet, like a frozen field of grass. Off-duty templars gaped outside the cordon alongside baffled mages, for once forgetting the engrained wariness that hadn’t yet had a chance to fade.

The tranquil were sent to investigate. Again, they concluded that there was nothing they could do. The lyrium specialists had been stolen away from the Gallows a year ago. Requests for outside assistance were turned down with polite refusals. Given the escalating unrest, no Knight-Commander would willingly approve sending experts outside of their home Circles. Cullen had no choice but to pray the infestation didn’t expand further.

**Bloomingtide 9:38 Dragon**

The Orders grip on Circles tightened further, unrest grew. Mage fraternities fractured into factions far more distinct than the cordial rivalry they had once had. Libertarians argued for independence. Loyalists argued for faith. Aequitarians argued for reason. The Order cracked down further. Communications stopped. Circle towers across Thedas closed off from the outside world.

It was a quiet rebellion. The average citizen might notice an increased templar presence, or a sudden stop in communications out of the Circles, but the Order and the Circle had always kept their secrets. Behind the sudden silence, the relationship between the Circles of Magi and the Templar Order was crumbling.

The Gallows no longer qualified as a Circle. Without a First Enchanter, they had no say in the decisions made by the Circle of Magi’s governing College of Enchanters. It was only through long delayed rumour that they heard the College of Enchanters had voted against independence by a narrow margin. But the voice of the Grand Enchanter still called stridently for a break from hundreds of years of Chantry stewardship. This time, the Chantry feared the Circles would listen. The possibility of outright rebellion by the Circles of Magi suddenly seemed far more likely. In response to the looming threat of war, the College of Enchanters was dissolved.

The silence between Circles and the outside world masked a sudden flurry of communications between Knights-Commander across Thedas and Val Royeaux. Tied to the continuing relief efforts in Kirkwall, Cullen could only watch with a helpless sense of inevitability. The same events that had happened in Kirkwall were now happening on a grander scale. He knew how it would end. If relationships weren’t restored, there would be a rebellion that the Order’s tightening grip would only hasten.

Any attempt at emphasising the point was futile. No Knight-Commander would accept that increased security wouldn’t work as it had before. Who would listen to a new Knight-Commander with barely more than a handful of mages under his protection? The lesson they took from Kirkwall was far different to the one Cullen saw. The Order and the Circles seemed intent on launching themselves into the void.

**Justinian 9:38 Dragon**

The injured mage looked terrible. Puffy swelling and bruising on his face made him almost unrecognisable. His chest barely moved as he breathed. A mage healer had done what they could to tend to the most grievous injuries, but there were no spirit healers left in the Gallows. The mage was swathed in bandages that suggested multiple broken bones that would have to heal naturally. It was miraculous he was still alive.

The mages’ spokesperson stood wringing her hands by the side of the injured mage’s bed. That enduring role as spokesperson had granted her the title of Enchanter, but she still refused the official position of First Enchanter. There was no Circle to justify the title.

When she spotted Cullen’s approach, she looked up with unshed tears in her eyes. “I thought the Gallows had changed,” she accused him. “Things like this used to happen occasionally under Knight-Commander Meredith, but never as bad as this. Never in plain view. It was like he didn’t care who saw.”

“The Gallows _has_ changed, Enchanter Jeane,” Cullen snapped. _Maker grant that it has,_ he prayed. _A year of hard work can_ _’t have been for nothing._ He cast a look over to the Knight-Corporal waiting at his shoulder. “You detained the culprit?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander. He’s in the cells now.” The man shook his head in disbelief. “It took three of us to restrain him. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“What provoked the incident?”

“He claimed the mage was breaking curfew, Knight-Commander.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “There has been no curfew in the Gallows for more than a year.” He pulled the Knight-Corporal out of hearing of the mages and lowered his voice. “Has he been struggling with lyrium recently?”

“Not that I noticed, Knight-Commander. No lapses. No phantom apostates. He was only initiated two years ago.”

“Early onset of problems isn’t unheard of, but never so abruptly.” Cullen shook his head. “I’ll need to interrogate him. Now.”

The culprit sat hunched on his bedroll in Templar Hall’s cells. He looked pale and sickly. Not out of the ordinary for templars that spent much of their time indoors in a Circle or covered from head to toe in armour every day, but this was beyond even that expected pale tone.

Cullen unlocked the cell door and settled himself just outside the entrance. The man’s eyes glittered in the torchlight as he looked up. He quickly shot to attention and saluted, belying his appearance.

“Knight-Commander, I’m not sure why I’m here.”

Cullen blinked. “You assaulted a mage, Knight-Templar.”

“He was breaking curfew and trespassing in Templar Hall. He refused to obey my orders when I said I would escort him back into the Circle, Knight-Commander. I suspected he might be trying to escape,” the man spat angrily.

“There is no curfew and the mages share many of Templar Hall’s facilities, Knight-Templar. You have been informed that any form of assault will be strictly punished.” Cullen folded his arms. “Name and rank. How long have you served, and under whom?”

The templar looked affronted, too young to realise the significance of the questions yet. “Atherton Lonnis, Knight-Templar, given to the Chantry in 9:28 Dragon, initiated in 9:36 Dragon. I have served for two years under Knight-Corporal Damian.”

Cullen nodded neutrally. “Have you been experiencing any lapses in memory recently? Any losses in time?”

“Lapses? No, Knight-Commander,” he replied with confusion at the line of questioning. It was possible to tell when older templars where trying to hide the truth, but this seemed genuine. The templar fell silent. Under his breath, he began humming an eerie tune.

Cullen’s blood ran cold. “What do you hear, Knight-Templar Atherton?”

“You must hear it too, Knight-Commander. The lyrium song, only ... different. Deeper. Stronger.” He stretched his fingers and rolled his shoulders as if in pain.

“Maker preserve us,” Cullen whispered. “Surely not.” He took a step closer until he was blocking the light streaming through the open cell door. The templar’s eyes still glittered a little too brightly in the sudden shadow. “Have you entered the main courtyard recently?”

The templar looked startled. “The courtyard is off-limits, Knight-Commander,” he replied warily.

“Yes, I do recall giving that order, Knight-Templar Atherton,” Cullen replied sardonically. “Answer the question.”

Another flare of anger flickered up, overriding the engrained deference to a commanding officer. “Of course not,” he spat.

Cullen looked over his shoulder to where Knight-Corporal Damian waited out of view. “Find a tranquil and search his bunk in the barracks.”

“Knight-Commander,” he acknowledged.

The templar lurched forwards. “No!”

“Stand down, Knight-Templar,” Cullen barked.

This time, engrained obedience worked. He lurched to a stop just before the cell door, a black scowl on his face. Cullen slammed the cell door shut and watched the inmate pace restlessly. Lyrium rationing kept many hovering at the very edge of withdrawal. Sometimes they could afford enough to stay on the right side of that line. Sometimes they couldn’t. Incidents triggered by the resultant irritability were to be expected. But whatever this man was suffering didn’t follow the usual signs of a templar struggling with lyrium. No one in the first stages of withdrawal could beat a mage half to death and have the strength to fight off three of his fellow templars. He prayed his suspicion was wrong, even knowing how futile that would be.

A handful of minutes later, Knight-Corporal Damian returned, a look of distaste on his face. “The tranquil found a shard of red crystal in Ser Atherton’s chest, Knight-Commander. I left it for her to handle.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen hissed. “Keep him confined and under observation. Hopefully whatever influence it has on him will fade.”

One week later, despite receiving regular lyrium rations, the templar fell into the first stages of particularly violent lyrium withdrawal. Only his relative youth prevented it from killing him entirely. After a further week of recovery, Cullen expelled him from the Order. Tainted by the corrupted lyrium or not, abuse in the Gallows would not be tolerated.

Barely two weeks after Ser Atherton was expelled, a search of the entire barracks found that ten templars had taken fragments of red lyrium from the growing forest of spines in the main courtyard. Cullen expelled every one from the Order without hesitation. He might not be able to spare the men, but the Order could not afford the corruption that would inevitably result. The courtyard was walled off entirely.

A few months later, a fresh spate of desertions plagued the Gallows. Rumour filtered back into the Gallows of a rogue cadre of templars lurking in the collapsed tunnels of Darktown. Every one of the sightings reported the same thing. The templars glowed a bloody scarlet.

Obedient, unimaginative, unforgiving. The kind of templar that Meredith had encouraged. The kind of templar that Meredith had wanted him to be. The same kinds of templars that now fell to the siren call of the lyrium infesting the courtyard. The corrupted melody of red spoke of power, not the clarity of blue. It wasn’t too hard to recognise the temptation that might pose.

With great reluctance, Cullen consulted with Hawke and Varric Tethras, the only people in Kirkwall likely to have any experience with this corrupting form of lyrium. They knew little more than he had gathered from observations on Atherton. Their combined knowledge of the effects of this corrupted form of lyrium was pitiful, but the latest piece of evidence painted a chilling picture. To a non-templar, it inflicted madness within moments. In Meredith, it had granted impossible strength and power, at the cost of corrupting her mind in a process so slow it was almost unnoticeable. The only conclusion he was able to draw was that it was far more dangerous in the hands of a templar than it was for a non-templar. Whether it was the years of lyrium use that built up an immunity, or their training and willpower that granted resistance and the knowledge to use the power granted by lyrium, it was clear that red lyrium granted abilities above and beyond those of chantry lyrium to a templar.

Cullen sent out more missives requesting the Seekers of Truth. In the wake of the dissolution of the College of Enchanters, tensions in Circles across Thedas were too high. Whether yet another message was lost to banditry or they were otherwise engaged, the Seekers never responded.

**Two years after the chantry explosion - Justinian 9:39 Dragon**

Much like the Gallows, a tightening of the Order’s hold worked to re-establish control in the short term. And much like the Gallows, the strained quiet could never last.

A year after the dissolution of the College of Enchanters, the silence broke. A mage attempted to assassinate the Divine herself.

This wasn’t news that could be kept quiet. The murder of their Grand Cleric was still fresh in the minds of the people of Kirkwall. The gaping hole in Kirkwall’s skyline was a daily reminder. Fresh riots erupted across a city. Citizens pounded at the gates to the Gallows. Pleas for calm from the Sisters in Kirkwall’s makeshift chantry were lost in the shouts for blood. Again, Cullen made his threats, did what he could to defuse the situation. But the people of Kirkwall weren’t in fear for their lives this time, they were angry. And they knew how empty those threats were. The Gallows had little more than a fifth of the templars it had held two years ago.

They waited a week in the impenetrable security of the fortress before the Guard were finally able to subdue the riots.

**Solace 9:39 Dragon**

She arrived in the office that had once been Meredith’s late at night, the smell of alcohol in her wake. Even by the light of the cheap tallow candle on the desk, she looked more exhausted than he had ever seen her in the two years working together. Instead of the informal tunic she had taken to wearing as viscount, she had returned to the light armour she had worn when Kirkwall was at its worst. She wore the battered pieces with the comfortable familiarity of a seasoned warrior, and far more easily than the garments of a viscount.

“Can I help, Viscountess Hawke? “ Cullen questioned with confusion as she settled gingerly into the seat across from him.

She offered a bottle of something that looked expensive. “Care to join me, Knight-Commander?” she asked, barely slurring. “I imagine you need it as much as I do.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. Clearly this was not business. “I don’t drink,” he replied irritably.

“I know templars don’t have to swear off alcohol. I’ve seen them drink.” She retrieved the bottle from a desk and stowed it in a pack by her side. “I assume you have a problem with contraband in the Gallows?”

“I’d rather not cloud my mind. Time enough for-” he sighed and cut himself off. It was too late for this.

She seemed to ignore his slip and folded her hands neatly in her lap. “He was an abomination, you know?”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Anders,” she supplied. “I knew and I didn’t trust him. But I still didn’t do anything.”

Cullen leaned back in his chair with distaste. “So we have gathered. A survivor of the annulment admitted that she was present when Anders killed Alrik.”

“If I’d handed him in to the templars…”

He recognised that guilt a little too well. “I have much experience with agonising over past mistakes. It is no help.”

She seemed to just want to talk. “Justice? Vengeance? The simple demons can be difficult enough. And they’re everywhere in this city now. Fear. Rage. Despair. Always whispering. I want to be angry at him. I’ve spent so long trying to put the city back together. But even simple anger doesn’t feel safe here. Too easy for the demons to twist.”

Cullen shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly alert. The surviving Circle mages had said much the same after a spate of near-possessions a few months after the chantry explosion. He hadn’t conducted a Harrowing in two years as a direct result, despite having apprentices who were more than ready for the culmination of their training. The Harrowing was intended to augment a mage’s ability to fight their demons, not to serve them up to those same demons on a silver platter. The veil was far too thin here. Too dangerous to conduct a Harrowing, yet dangerous to go without. It had been an impossible decision to make.

He hid his fear behind a curt smile. “You might say the Order have some experience with handling such problems. We can assist.”

“With tranquility?” She laughed, for a moment recovering her sardonic mask. “I’m not that desperate.”

Cullen exhaled. “There are other, less permanent ways to help. Tranquility is a last resort for mages who have lost control.”

She cocked her head with curiosity, although he could see she wasn’t truly interested. “How? I haven’t exactly had much experience with how mages and templars work together.”

Purge her magic. Cut her off from the fade until the demons left. But that was no help without addressing the root cause of the emotions that drew the demons closer. In this state, not even the most foolhardy of Knights-Commander would recommend her for a Harrowing, even if this wasn’t Kirkwall. In most Circles, her admission would have earned her the brand.

She stood up abruptly from her seat and walked over to inspect Cullen’s bookshelf. Instinct almost sent him for his sword at the sharp movement, but he stopped when she turned her back. A bloody slash parted her tunic from shoulder to hip. The fabric was stiff with blood. Maker knew a prominent apostate wasn’t something the Order was particularity happy with, but he couldn’t imagine who would have dared attack the city’s viscount. He wavered between decisions. She needed a healer, but in this state, with demons whispering in her ears, it might be dangerous to bring her into an infirmary full of sick and injured.

“Viscountess, you’re injured,” he said finally. “Allow me to fetch a healer.”

She waved off the offer. “I know you’ve done your best to track down those templars using red lyrium, but it’s a pretty blighted poor job. Surely it can’t be that hard. They glow.”

He tensed. “The renegades did this to you?

Her sigh was audible from across the room. “They broke into my estate. Tried to kill me because I’m an apostate. You didn’t send them?”

“Maker. Of course not. I’d come in person and I certainly wouldn’t try and kill you. I warned you that the renegades could be dangerous.”

“I didn’t think that kind of deception was your style, but I had to check.” She ran her fingers over the books on his shelf. “Varric’s book makes the whole story seem much less sordid than it was.” She looked over at him then. Suddenly she didn’t seem drunk at all. Maybe she never had been. “I’ve outstayed my welcome in Kirkwall. I think I’ll have to find my redemption elsewhere. You look like you need a change in scenery too.”

He words only reminded him how tired he was. Short lyrium rations weren’t an excuse. “I’m afraid that’s not a possibility for me. I have a duty here and a debt to repay.”

“I suppose you don’t have much of a choice, do you?”

“No,” he sighed, “but I never have.”

“But you did choose to stop Meredith.” She sat back down and leaned forwards, elbows on his desk. The flickering light of the candle cast deep shadows over her face. “Do you have regrets?”

“Many. But not about stopping Knight-Commander Meredith. I only feel guilt for not stopping her sooner.” He exhaled slowly. “And guilt for killing my own commanding officer. I have been taught since I was a child to obey my commanding officer’s orders without question. Even if it was justified, it’s impossible to go against fourteen years of habit without guilt.”

She chuckled bitterly. “The Chantry and Circles might tell us we’re on opposing sides, but the guilt is certainly the same. Anders tried to convince me to agree with his cause for six years. He hated me for helping the Order. When he realised he couldn’t convince me, he manipulated me into helping him and tried to use that to force my hand. He killed thousands of people and started a war because I didn’t realise how dangerous he really was. So yes, guilt is something I know well.”

“In Circles,” he offered, “templars are told to avoid friendship or attachment to mages so that they will not hesitate to act should a mage become corrupted. I didn’t believe it was necessary in Kinloch Hold and suffered for it. To recognise corruption in a friend and have to kill them is difficult. To feel you’ve been used or betrayed is worse. Trust is a hard thing to regain after that.”

She nodded in agreement. “Avoiding trust almost seems reasonable to me. But it’s a lonely life.”

Cullen shrugged easily, as if it didn’t matter. “There’s no room for such sentiments. We are required only to serve. Champions as much as knights of the Order.”

“I think it’s time for me to change that.” She sighed with a weary resignation to match Cullen’s own and began to limp out of the office. “It’s been a pleasure working with you. I hope you find your redemption, Ser Cullen.”

The next day, Viscountess Hawke was nowhere to be found in Kirkwall. Senschal Bran marched into the Gallows at the head of a contingent of the Guard, venting accusations that could be heard from halfway across the island. Cullen met him outside Templar Hall, the remaining templars in the Gallows a silent threat at his back. They might be crippled, but they would be no more willing to accept an attack from the city than the Order had been in Meredith’s day.

With the bare minimum of courtesy, Cullen demanded that he be escorted to the scene of the crime. The Amell estate had been sacked. Templar bodies were scattered throughout.

His insistence that the dead templars were the same ones he had warned the seneschal about countless times were ignored. Only Guard Captain Vallen’s arrival with a letter of resignation from Hawke resolved the argument. With tensions between mages and templars at a critical point, little wonder they believed the Knight-Commander of the infamous Gallows had finally chosen to have Kirkwall’s most famous apostate killed.

**Three years after the chantry explosion - Solace 9:40 Dragon**

Relationships between the Order and Circles of Magi were held together by the barest threads. The news that the Rite of Tranquility had been reversed destroyed the last vestiges of cordiality.

The response in the Gallows was muted disbelief. Since the Rite had first been granted to the Order, it had always been seen as a permanent act. Cullen had applied the Rite only twice since he had taken command of the Gallows, once at the mage’s insistence and once for an elderly mage losing his mind to dementia. Neither had been an act he took lightly. But the Gallows had a legacy that couldn’t be easily forgotten. None of the few mages in the Gallows knew how to take the news. Cullen hardly knew himself.

The reaction was far worse in functioning Circles. The Rite might have been intended only in grave need, but every inhabitant of a Circle knew that it had been used to silence dissent in the past. Suddenly, the brand no longer hovered over the heads of the discontent. Despite the dissolution of the College of Enchanters, a conclave of mages was called to discuss the news. Once again, Kirkwall was unable to attend.

The news they received in the days following the meeting was garbled. One catastrophe after another. Mages and templars had fought. Many of Thedas’ First Enchanters had been killed. The White Spire had revolted. Phylacteries had been destroyed. The survivors had retreated to the fortress of Andoral’s Reach and welcomed apostates to join them.

Reports didn’t say who had instigated the fracture, but the result was quite clear. Circles were in open revolt.

**August 9:40 Dragon**

Cullen was beginning to feel that his life was characterised by letters. The letters from his sister that he left unopened. The constant updates out of Val Royeaux. The missives flying between Thedas’ Knights-Commander as they tried to gauge how best to quash the unrest in their own Circles and root the apostate mages out of Andoral’s Reach. An endless stream of ink and paper that did absolutely nothing to resolve a building war. He worked in Kirkwall day after day helping the city rebuild, whilst outside, the Order and Circles ran headlong into the void. All he could do was observe with helpless resignation .

He could do nothing but ignore most letters. There was absolutely nothing a Knight-Commander of a crippled Circle in a broken city could do to resolve the problem. This one could not be ignored. Knight-Commander Carsten had finally recalled his templars to Starkhaven.

Rylen looked grave when Cullen passed on the news. At a nod from Cullen, he sat at the chair in front of his desk and sighed. “I can guess why we’ve been recalled. He’s worried about what will happen to Starkhaven if open war does break out. We might not have a Circle, but we used to once.”

Cullen nodded with resignation. “It has been three years. Kirkwall is finally able to sustain itself. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Knight-Commander Carsten would recall you eventually.”

“If you’d rather we stay, Knight-Commander,” Rylen offered, “I’m sure there’s plenty that needs doing.”

That startled a chuckle out of Cullen. “Maker. As if I haven’t given you enough to do. But I can’t override the orders. You’re not strictly in my chain of command.”

Rylen responded to the show of amusement with a smile of his own. “Anything you need, I’m your templar.”

Cullen tapped his lips in thought. “The sewers have always been a problem. Perhaps you’d care to oversee patrols there?” he offered dryly.

Rylen gave him a look of disgusted horror. The expression morphed into a laugh as he registered the smirk playing across Cullen’s face. “Right away, Knight-Commander. Maybe you’d like a souvenir?”

Cullen shook his head wryly and stood up from behind his desk. His expression sobered quickly, and he offered a crisp salute. “We couldn’t have done half of what we managed without you and your men, Knight-Captain Rylen. Your presence will be missed.”

“Thank you, Knight-Commander.” Rylen hesitated. In the face of one catastrophe after another, moments of optimism were few and far between. It was hardly a surprise that he expected bad news to be followed by worse. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything further out of Val Royeaux?”

Cullen’s shivered. “Apostates are still gathering in Andoral’s Reach. It would take an Exalted March to get them out. The latest reports suggest that another vote will be called on the Circle of Magi’s independence from the Chantry. Maker knows what happens now.”

**Kingsway 9:40 Dragon**

 

> _Loyal templars of the Templar Order,_
> 
> _Cumberland has fallen. Ansburg has fallen. Hasmal has fallen. Markham has fallen. Perendale has fallen. Ghislain has fallen. Lake Calenhad has fallen. Hossberg has fallen._
> 
> _The White Spire itself has fallen._
> 
> _The Circles have voted for independence. The Chantry has failed in its Maker-given duty to curb the mage rebellion. With the Circles no more, the Nevarran Accord is null and void. Neither the Templar Order nor the Seekers of Truth will recognise the Chantry_ _’s authority over us from this day forwards. We will not allow the Divine’s ineffectual rule to prevent us from performing the Maker’s work as it is meant to be done. Free from the Chantry’s interference, we must curb this mage rebellion. First at Andoral’s Reach, then beyond. Any apostate that denies the dominance granted to us by divine right will face the Maker’s Mercy._
> 
> _Walk always in the Maker_ _’s light._
> 
> _Lord Seeker Lambert van Reeves_

The crumpled missive fell from Cullen’s nerveless fingers.

They had fallen. Rebellion had become war.

**Harvestmere 9:40 Dragon**

A week after the catastrophic declaration from the Lord Seeker, a missive arrived by raven from Starkhaven. Knight-Commander Carsten was following the Lord Seeker’s summons to join an assault on the apostates in Andoral’s reach. Confident of the close association between the Order in Starkhaven and Kirkwall, he offered to march to Val Royeaux in the company of the Kirkwall templars. The missive was disconcertingly polite given the vitriol directed at the rebel mages.

A day letter, another missive arrived.

 

> _Knight-Commander Cullen,_
> 
> _Forgive the informality, but I think we_ _’ve worked together long enough to warrant it. I hope for Andraste’s sake that you’re not going along with this madness._
> 
> _Knight-Commander Carsten has forgotten what it is we_ _’re here for, but I hope I’ve come to know you well enough to judge you right. I will be remaining in Starkhaven along with every other templar loyal to our calling. Hopefully we can count on your support._
> 
> _Knight-Captain Rylen_

The same schisms appeared amongst the templars that Cullen led. No one knew what ‘loyal’ meant for a knight of the Templar Order any more. Remain steadfast with their duty to protect the remaining loyalist Circles and as defenders of the faith? Destroy those same Circles as the apostates they had become after the vote for independence? Abandon their posts at the Lord Seeker’s command? Every choice was the correct one from a certain perspective. The Order was a fractured shadow of what it had been.

Cullen turned Carsten’s offer down. The thinly veiled thirst for blood was something he wanted nothing to do with. It was reassuring to know that others also retained their sanity. The trust he had had in Rylen wasn’t misplaced.

Forthrin and what was left of his scouts left one night without any fanfare. Conrad had the decency to present himself to Cullen and provide his explanation. The man was a mage hunter and the Lord Seeker called on them to hunt mages. He felt he would serve better following the Lord Seeker’s command than continuing to assist with Kirkwall’s rebuilding.

With their departure and the trickle of red lyrium-triggered desertions, Kirkwall was now left with a tenth of the templars it had held before the annulment of their Circle. Under normal circumstances, no one more senior than a Knight-Captain would have been needed to command such a small chapter of templars.

Cullen couldn’t deny the templars who chose to join the Lord Seeker. The Nevarran accord might be null and void, but the Order had always been subservient to the Seekers of Truth. The Lord Seeker’s commands would override even the Knight-Vigilant’s. But he knew his own mind. As far as he was concerned, their calling was as protectors. He would stay in Kirkwall, protect the mages left in the Gallows who wanted nothing to do with a war, and help Kirkwall rebuild piece by piece. Waging a war served nothing but a thirst for blood.

Despite that conviction, he found himself suddenly purposeless, with the meaning of duty suddenly indistinct. _Blessed are the peacekeepers_ seemed to be a conviction that few cared to uphold. An Order to which he had dedicated his life now didn’t bear even a passing resemblance to what he had thought it was. He found himself trapped in a cause he didn’t believe in.

It took every ounce of will to resist the temptation to fall back into the certainty offered by lyrium’s embrace. There seemed little reason to fight against the chains that bound him. With so many templars following the Lord Seeker’s call, they were suddenly able to afford enough lyrium and more.

He lined a double dose of vials up on the shelf in his quarters. Just in case. There for when the nightmares threatened to overtake him.

**Firstfall 9:40 Dragon**

The letters from his sister had grown into a veritable pile on his shelf. One every three months, regular as the cycles of the moons. All unopened. The reminders of who he had once been and that life of normality had seemed too kind to be deserved by who he was now. His memories of a time before the Order were disappearing disconcertingly quickly into a blue haze without her regular updates to strengthen them.

But he’d opened this one before he realised its source. It wasn’t a demand for support or plea for assistance from templars who had rejected the Chantry. Somehow, Mia had managed to find someone willing to lend her a seal of the Templar Order. Now he was presented with her familiar spidery scrawl.

 

> _Dearest Cullen,_
> 
> _I know you_ _’re ignoring me. Your longest letter to us was all of two sentences three_ _years_ _ago._ _‘The Kirkwall Chantry has been destroyed. I am still alive’. The you don’t send anything else until a war starts? Andraste give me strength, Cullen, you had us all so worried. You’re lucky that the little chantry in South Reach always had the latest news from Kirkwall. We heard your name often enough to know you were still alive._
> 
> _A sympathetic templar willing to help passed through South Reach. He said he was a Knight-Lieutenant on_ _‘business’. Probably on his way to join the growing force of rebel templars in the Hinterlands, but he was perfectly polite once I mentioned I wanted to write to you. I was willing to take the risk if it meant you might read this letter._
> 
> _I_ _’ll say the same thing I’ve said in every one of my past letters. Even out here, we couldn’t have missed the news from Kirkwall. It was the only news anyone was interested in hearing for months, so I know what happened there. I’ve heard you led the relief efforts to help Kirkwall recover. And now you’ve stayed on to carry on helping in Kirkwall, even with the war between the Order and the mages. The templars that pass through here don’t know whether to call you a hero or a traitor, but I’m glad you decided to stay out of it. You haven’t changed. It’s just like you to always do the right thing, however difficult that may be. I can’t imagine what it must have been — what it must still be like to face what you deal with every day._
> 
> _I_ _’m sorry._
> 
> _It might not mean much from so far away, from family you haven_ _’t seen in half your life, but all our love is with you. I know duty means you can’t come back to us, but South Reach will always be a new home for you if the worst should happen._
> 
> _Happy Birthday._
> 
> _Stay safe._
> 
> _Mia_

He traced his fingers over the words. Ink couldn’t rewrite the lost memories, but maybe it could preserve those left behind. A landscape of clean light and green dales as far as the eye could see, not unrelenting stone and tight corridors. Mia’s eyes had been a shade lighter than his — the same shade as their father’s — not the lyrium blue that suffused his mind.

She hadn’t offered a word of congratulation for a promotion that had only been a burden. No demands for an explanation. There hadn’t been a hint of condemnation for his or the Order’s actions. Just her compassion, despite his own remoteness. In her mind — if nowhere else — that idealistic young boy endured. In her mind, he had a home, not a prison formed of duty that had lost its meaning and lyrium that would destroy him.

 

> _Dear Mia,_
> 
> _The words mean more than you know. Thank you._
> 
> _Cullen_

He didn’t know what else to say. The formal penmanship instilled by a Chantry education seemed too distant compared to Mia’s comfortable scrawl.

Three lines inscribed in deep black ink on pristine parchment. There was an immense weight of responsibility concealed behind those simple, everyday elements. A report or a missive. A requisition or the order for a blood mage to be neutralised. This felt more important than any of those. None of the rest had much of a meaning any more, with the Order so broken. Hopefully she would see the heartfelt honesty in those brief ineloquent words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to find a proper timeline of events in the mage-templar war. I have no idea which Circles actually fall and which ones don’t. Apologies if I put one in that definitely remains loyal.
> 
> According to my rough guess, almost 70,000 gold is spent per year for lyrium in the Gallows before the Chantry explosion. Post explosion, a lot of templars die or desert, but then there are the Starkhaven templars to look after as well.


	38. Dreaming of Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story ends

**Firstfall 9:40 Dragon**

_You should be dead, Cullen. Dead. Just like the rest of us._

The buzzing hum of a thousand wasps. Deep red pulsed behind his eyelids with the throbbing rhythm of a heartbeat. The tainted song of red lyrium, always only a stone’s throw away, infiltrating his mind, promising redemption that couldn’t be found in blue. It had granted Meredith the power to set the world right according to her vision. It could offer him the same. All his mistakes and weaknesses wiped away as if they’d never existed.

 _Idiot boy,_ Desire whispered with Meredith’s voice. _Failure._

Cullen bolted upright with a gasp, damp sheets tangled about his knees. A breeze from the open balcony door did little to cool sweat soaked skin. He staggered onto the balcony and into the unseasonal warmth of a Kirkwall night, nothing like the almost-lost memory of the crisp breeze off the Fereldan lakes.

The sky was dark and filled with the cold pinpricks of stars. It was hours before dawn broke yet. How many times in the past three years had he knelt on this balcony reciting the Chant until daylight hid the stars from view?

With a sigh he began to don his armour for the day ahead. The early hour at least gave him chance to deal with the never-ending list of tasks for the day. He might have a tenth of the mages and templars that had once called the Gallows home, but a Knight-Commander was never given leave to rest. A war didn’t change his responsibilities. He would continue doing his duty until there was nothing left of him. Perhaps then the longed-for absolution would make itself known.

He turned his gaze to the lyrium kit resting on the sparsely-filled bookshelf. With mechanical motions, he mixed his daily draught. The lyrium was measured with exacting precision. One single dose. Even now that their funds were stable enough to support what was left of the Gallows, he feared falling again. He was of an age where rapid deterioration could set in, and his lyrium use had hardly been the most regimented in the past years.

Rapid fading of memory suggested he was not to be one of the lucky few who lasted into old age without any negative effects. He had been lucky to make it this far. Younger templars than him had been lost. But whoever had claimed that lyrium only took the worst memories had clearly never been a templar. The memory of Kinloch Hold was as clear as it had always been, whilst kinder ones were blurred behind a haze of blue. Perhaps the only memories eventually left to him would be those of Kirkwall and the Circle Tower.  Mia’s letter had strengthened the good recollections, but they would be lost eventually.

Templar training would hold it at bay, for a while longer. But the fading memories would lead to lapses in time. Then a loss in his mental faculties. Then, one day, they would find him chasing phantom demons through the streets and he would live out the rest of his days lost in his own mind in a Val Royeaux monastery. That worry lingered like a black cloud on the edge of his mind.

The rest of his vials lined up on a shelf, where the soothing glow could light his quarters, as if the clarity they offered could be found simply in that captivating shade of blue. Twelve vials. Enough to serve the double ration he’d sworn he’d stop taking but hadn’t the strength to forsake entirely. A quiet voice begged to take them all in one searing dose. He could drown himself in lyrium and emerge through to the serenity on the other side. Or perhaps surrender and never emerge at all.

A second vial found its way into his hand without him really realising. It seemed a lifetime ago, but once a half dose had kept him whole. Now, even two vials might not be enough. Its muted hum called to him, offering absolution. He quashed that voice, as tempting as it was to listen, and set the vial to one side with a click. There was no absolution in lyrium, and the memory of his failures was what drove him to improve. Wishing them gone was a coward’s move.

He closed his eyes as he drank the draught. Much easier that way to ignore the way his hands shook slightly with need.

The cool liquid danced across his tongue, restoring a crystalline keenness to his mind. But the song was barely audible these days. Nothing compared to the beauty when he taken two and even three.

One single dose, perfectly measured, perfectly regimented. A gentle, inevitable descent rather than a sudden fall. The inevitable sacrifice of a templar serving his calling. What else was a templar’s fabled iron will for?

 _Samson called it burning myself on the pyre of duty._ It was a more apt description than he had realised. A sword through the heart might have been more efficient, but only Andraste merited that mercy.

When he opened his eyes, the tremor had already stilled. A Knight-Commander could not show weakness, even when the chains began to drag them down.

He marched sharply down corridors to the chapel at the heart of Templar Hall. The lone templar stationed anywhere in sight saluted as he passed. That their Knight-Commander was up at all hours hadn’t been news since his arrival in the Gallows ten years ago. He knelt on one knee in front of a statue to Andraste, hands clasped, and head bowed. He would pray for guidance, as he had done every day since Kinloch Hold. Even if no answer ever came.

Dawn found him stationed behind the desk that had once been Knight-Commander Meredith’s. A stack of neat reports from his subordinates lay sorted at one corner of the desk. Petitions from nobles and influential merchants tottered on the opposite side. He ought to have been pleased that commerce and life in Kirkwall had recovered enough for the pile to be so large, but it never seemed to thin out. With Hawke long gone, the nobles were desperate for someone else to solve their problems. Not that Hawke had been the best administrator in her brief period as Viscountess. There were even some petitions outright begging for the Templars to return to their stewardship of the city. The relief efforts had gone a long way to restoring the people’s broken trust in the Order, even after the schism between the Order and the Chantry. But Cullen had no desire to retread that path. Stock replies prepared by a tranquil scribe awaited each request for a return to Templar stewardship of Kirkwall.

The final missive on the centre of his desk had lain there for over a month. The Divine had called for a conclave to resolve tensions between mages and templars. All members of the Order and Circles were welcome, whether loyal to the Chantry or not. On Wintersend, two sides of the conflict would try and resolve their differences. It was a fine gesture, if futile. He prayed for the conclave’s success, but saw little benefit in attending himself.

Cullen glanced briefly at the sword and shield resting in a stand by the open doorway. It would almost be a relief to return to the days of clearing the city of abominations. At least they weren’t politicians. As hard as the work had been, it had been easier to see the progress being made.

A gentle rap on the doorframe drew his attention to Karellian’s irritable grimace. He wore his Knight-Captain’s armour poorly, an enduring statement on how reluctant he had been to take the position. Cullen wished he had that luxury.

“Knight-Commander, a Seeker has arrived to see you.” He shook his head with disgust and took a few steps into the office. “Blighted Seekers of Truth. They only ever turn up when they’re no longer wanted. Whatever she has to say, every templar here is behind you.”

“Thank you, Ser Karellian,” Cullen sighed. The inevitable has finally arrived. “Escort her in.”

Karellian disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. Cullen held little hope that the man would keep his own council about the Order’s ubiquitous distaste for the Seekers. The secretive force policing the Order would never have been popular at the best of times. But now, with the Nevarran Accord broken, no one was quite sure what to expect from a Seeker.

It was a sign of the insanity of the times that Cullen didn’t know whether to be pleased or cautious. The Seeker could bear a personal command from the Lord Seeker, one he couldn’t interpret to his own preference. It could have been a response to his countless requests for aid from the Seekers of Truth. It could even be the long awaited reckoning for his actions in Kirkwall. Whatever the case, the Seekers only arrived only for the worst of problems.

He spared a moment to cast an eye over the office and his own appearance. He might be weary and disillusioned, but he would not give the templars under his command reason to be ashamed. The Kirkwall chapter had every right to be proud of its accomplishments in the past three years, even if they were a shadow of what they had been. Whatever retribution the Seeker had brought was his to bear alone.

The office that had once been Meredith’s had become almost as familiar as the one he’d once called his own. It still bore the scars of the annulment, a reminder to himself of how easy it was to walk down the wrong path. His armour was still the same Knight-Captain’s armour he had worn for years, polished and perfectly presentable. The only concession to his rank were the formal robes reserved for the position. There had been far more important places to spend their limited funds than on requisitioning expensive Knight-Commander’s armour.  It didn’t really matter. If a Seeker was here, she would quite possibly know more about Cullen then he himself did.

He cleared stacks of completed and outstanding reports from the desk. Even a Knight-Commander had to drop everything when a Seeker came calling. Knight-Commander or Knight-Templar, she would have authority over him.

A woman a few years his senior and in the well-maintained plate of the Seekers strode into the office. Cullen snapped to attention and offered a salute. The signs of a hard life of service marked her face. This one was no bureaucrat. Presumably she was the kind of Seeker they sent for the most serious investigations. The calm gaze she levelled at him in response to his salute gave away nothing.

“Welcome to the Gallows, Seeker,” he offered with the bare minimum of politeness. “We are at your service.”

Cullen seated himself behind the desk that had once been Meredith’s. He gestured for the seeker to do the same. She pushed the door shut behind her before sitting. It had to have been to ward off inquisitive ears, but it left Cullen tense before she had even started. Observant eyes passed over the burns that still scarred the desk’s surface before meeting his. He could have found a replacement, but it had seemed fitting to keep it. Whatever conclusions the seeker drew, she made no comment.

“I am Seeker Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine. I am here as an envoy on her behalf.”

Cullen leaned back in his seat and returned her look with a sharp one of his own. No reason to hide his displeasure. “And here I had thought the Chantry had abandoned us entirely. Three years with barely a word. If you intend to prevent war, you’re a little late.”

She frowned, but allowed the insubordination to pass. “It is too late to prevent it, but perhaps we might be able to bring about peace. Kirkwall seems to have been the source of the sparks that triggered the war. I need a full account of relevant events.”

“I sent a thorough report three years ago,” Cullen responded irritably.

“Yes. Covering the events surrounding the explosion and the death of Knight-Commander Meredith. I want the whole story, as best as you’re able to recall. Right from your arrival in Kirkwall to current day. No exaggerations. Master Tethras’ book has quite enough of that.”

Cullen sucked in an irritated breath, indifferent to the Seeker’s frown. “As you command, Seeker Pentaghast.”

He laid his entire life in Kirkwall in front of her, right from his first day stepping off the boat to the struggles to rebuild a broken city. It all seemed so distant, but with his life reduced to the crisp efficiency of a report, his mistakes seemed far more starkly outlined. Throughout the account, her expression remained impassive, questions storing up behind her eyes as she absorbed each unembellished statement. He had no doubt she recalled every word he had said, but it was impossible to tell what she thought.

With his story told, he leaned back and crossed his arms reflexively. “Pass your judgement, Seeker.”

Her sharp gaze reflected everything he would have expected from a Seeker of Truth. His life for the past ten years had been presented for her to scrutinise and pass judgement. That unwavering gaze seemed to be peeling him back, layer by layer, to leave the scarred core he tried so hard to hide.

She stood up from her chair and began to pace slowly in front of the desk, hands clasped behind her back. She cast a penetrating look at him, a sure sign that the expected interrogation was imminent.

“An apostate mage assisting in the annulment of a Circle is surely a move calculated to spread confusion and chaos. Clearly Knight-Commander Meredith had lost her mind, but why did you not pass comment?”

He massaged his brow against the building headache. Surely it was far too early for one. “Maker. It wasn’t-” he growled in frustration. “She was trying to stop the bloodshed. She wanted nothing to do with Anders’ vendetta. She thought she could act as a bridge between mage and templar rather than perpetuating a war. For a moment, I even believed it myself.”

“She was an apostate, Knight-Commander,” the Seeker said sternly. “I find it hard to believe that a templar would willingly collude with one such as her.”

“I’m aware of her status as an apostate,” he snapped irritably, even as he flinched at the accusation. The Seeker wasn’t wrong. He’d thought much the same countless times over the years. “She did a great service to this city by helping stop Knight-Commander Meredith’s madness. She was not harmless by any definition, but she was less of a danger to the city than we were.”

Cullen started back as the Seeker planted her palms on the desk and leaned forwards to look in his eyes. “I would say you were under the influence of blood magic, but you seem quite lucid otherwise.”

“I would never submit to a blood mage,” he retorted acidly. “I imagine my service record should make that quite clear.”

She tossed aside his comment with a shake of her head and resumed her pacing. “You allowed a prominent apostate to become viscount of an entire city state.”

“Yes,” he said curtly. There was no point denying the obvious facts. The Seeker had taken no time at all in piercing right to his most recent crimes.

“And then allowed that same apostate to disappear without a trace and not even a token effort at pursuit by templars,” the Seeker stated with visible disappointment.

“I barely had the numbers to pursue apostates inside Kirkwall, let alone outside. I hardly escorted her to the city gates,” he replied with a sarcasm that was a poor shield for his creeping unease. It was no surprise that a Seeker would be so displeased that he had allowed an apostate to flee. “She was forced out by renegade templars corrupted by red lyrium.”

The Seeker looked thoughtful. “I saw Knight-Commander Meredith’s remains in the courtyard. The infestation seems to be spreading.”

“I have done what I can to contain it, but we are understandably engaged in helping the city recover. This was a problem that needed the Seekers of Truth,” he said accusingly. “Had anyone come earlier, they would have seen the corrupting influence of this red lyrium."

“We have had our own problems,” she replied reluctantly.

Cullen’s expression darkened. The Seekers had abandoned their duty just as much as the Order had. “Yes, I imagine so.”

Her angle of questioning changed abruptly. “You chose to stay here rather than joining many of your fellow Knights-Commander in subduing the rebel mages.”

Cullen chuckled incredulously. “Subduing is a rather polite term for murder, Seeker. I have had quite enough of that for a lifetime. There are still people here who need support. I don’t see how my duty requires me to participate in all out war on apostates.”

She grunted non-committally, leaving Cullen even more uncertain than he already felt.

“I will admit that I have made mistakes in the past. I am prepared to accept whatever judgement you wish to pass. But I stand by my actions following the annulment of the Circle, Seeker,” he added when she said nothing further.

“Let us return to a previous comment. You claim Hawke wished to bridge the gap between mages and templars. Is that a sentiment with which you agreed?”

Cullen frowned. “Of course. The Order might be the military arm of the Chantry, but hostility is in none of our best interests. We are peacekeepers first and foremost.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “But it seems to have been inevitable. Kirkwall accelerated a conflict that was already building.”

Cullen shuddered. He prayed the Seeker wasn’t implying that the Divine intended to call for an Exalted March to put a stop to the war between the Order and the Circle.

She transitioned smoothly into another question and another, jumping from topic to topic until Cullen was left reeling. Not a single aspect of his cursed time in Kirkwall was left uncovered. Even had he not been committed to absolute honesty, he would have been unable to hide anything from an adept interrogation that wrung out every inconsequential detail with consummate skill. Under her scrutiny, ever mistake seemed magnified. It left him more certain than ever that his crimes were too much to be forgiven.

With very little fanfare, she stopped her pacing and studied Cullen where he still sat with tight shoulders and drawn face. His hands ached where they had clenched into fists out of her view.

“I have other inquires to make, Knight-Commander,” she said neutrally. “Your story must be corroborated. You may continue as you were until I return. Good day.”

She strode out of the office as confidently as she had entered, showing none of the fatigue that pulled at Cullen’s bones.

With her gone, Cullen allowed his rigid posture to collapse entirely. He had never been on the receiving end of an interrogation. He felt drained, as if he had spent the entire day fighting demons. His armour was an impossible weight on his shoulders. The Seeker hadn’t given anything away. He had no idea whether he was to be dragged away in chains to face the Divine’s judgement, or whether he was to be left to continue leading a crippled chapter of the Order barely worthy of its name. It would almost be a relief to know that he was finally to face judgement.

~~~~

She returned a handful of days later, this time not bothering with the courtesy of having herself announced. Instead of the impassivity that had characterised her interrogation, she seemed pensive.

Cullen’s eyes drifted over her shoulder. She’d heard his story. No doubt more Seekers waited outside with chains to drag him away. There was no reason for pleasantries. He pulled himself to attention and saluted crisply.

“Allow me to-”

“Your story corroborates with other evidence I have heard,” she interrupted. “I will say my piece before you pass judgement or make any assumptions.”

Cullen closed his mouth and nodded once. He silently gestured towards the seat in front of his desk and sat himself down in his own chair.

“The Chantry has been remiss in its duty to the people. The events in Kirkwall were a tragedy, yet you were abandoned when our support was most needed. Nevertheless, you succeeded in stabilising the chaos in Kirkwall and even in starting the city on the route to recovery, despite countless obstacles from within and without.” She offered an approving nod. “What you have managed to do here is exemplary. If only others in the Order were so faithful to their calling.”

The warm words shattered against the barriers he’d erected to protect himself from further harm. False comforts were dangerous, just as in Kinloch Hold. No doubt it wasn’t the first time a Seeker had been compared to a demon. Maker knew what games she was playing, but it was impossible to believe she meant what she said.

“I thought you said you’d confirmed my story,” Cullen drawled. “Exemplary is not the description I would apply.”

She didn’t seem especially surprised by his rejection, although a touch of remorse did her cross her face for a moment. “You give yourself far too little credit.”

“I give myself too much,” he countered sharply. “You should be dragging me to face the Divine’s judgement, not praising me for finally doing what I was meant to do.”

“Meant to, perhaps, but few could do what you have done half as well,” she insisted. “I will make myself quite clear. I find _no_ fault worthy of punishment in your actions. You have acknowledged your mistakes and have worked to rectify them. You have served three years to rebuild Kirkwall. That seems a harsh enough decree. No further sentencing from either the Seekers or the Divine is deemed necessary.”

“But-” Cullen stopped, bewildered, as he looked for a trace of deceit. _But I don_ _’t deserve absolution._ Three years waiting for the inevitable punishment, only to find it had been retracted. It left him feeling as if the ground had suddenly opened beneath him, as if his only reason for enduring the past three years had been to face judgement.

“That is not what I am here to discuss,” she continued, cutting off any further objections and leaving him still unable to accept that he was really free of the guilt he had carried for three years. “You know of the war that is being waged between mage and templar. I have seen how it has decimated your ranks.” The seeker sighed. “Divine Justinia has called for a conclave to try and resolve the differences between the apostates and rebel templars.”

“I had seen the summons,” Cullen replied wearily. “If you’re asking me to attend as a representative, I’m afraid I must refuse. You will understand if I believe it better that I keep as far from the conclave as possible. I imagine my presence would only worsen the situation. There is too little chance of resolving this war as it is.”

There was another reason too. Ferelden was the home that Kirkwall had never become. Ferelden was where an innocent young templar had thought he could protect and serve the innocent. What a fool that boy had been. A broken city was a much better fit for a broken man.

“Your presence would be valued. You have more to say than most on how things might be improved,” she responded with a shake of her head. “But should the conclave fail, she has authorised me to re-establish the Inquisition of old to assist in restoring peace. The Chantry has failed you, failed the Order and failed the Circles. Now the Divine hopes to fix that, starting by resolving this war.”

Unsure why she felt the need to tell him, his response was curt. “I am glad. But why tell me?”

“All loyal templars have been requested to join the Divine at the conclave.” She set a roll of parchment on the table. The Divine’s own seal in red and gold was a bright splash of colour on pristine white. “But whether the Inquisition becomes necessary or not, good leaders are required. People that are sadly in short supply. What you have managed to establish in the face of such recent tragedy should have been impossible, but you succeeded. The Divine has granted me leave to select the commander of the Inquisition’s military forces.”  She paused briefly and set her hand on the sealed roll of parchment. “I would like to offer you the position.”

Seekers had a reputation for toying with templars, but this was cruel. Another false comfort to tug his patched and aching heart in a different direction. He so wanted to believe the impossible dream she was offering. Maker knew he wished he deserved a new chance to find redemption, but it couldn’t possibly be true.

”Yes, because a templar best known for being Knight-Commander Meredith’s right hand is the perfect way to demonstrate the Divine’s good intentions,” Cullen replied acerbically, surprise fading back into weary disappointment. “You’ll forgive the insubordination, but the joke is not appreciated, Seeker.”

The Seeker raised an eyebrow at Cullen’s sarcasm. She folded her hands on the desk and met Cullen’s level gaze. “This is no joke, Knight-Commander Cullen.”

He leaned forwards suddenly, heart pounding, and scanned her face for signs of deception. There was nothing but conviction in her return look. _Surely not._

“Maker. You’re serious. Why in Andraste’s name would you think I was a good choice? You must know the long list of failures that describes my service in the Order,” he said with incredulity. “The Gallows was not a kind place for mages and I did less than nothing to remedy that.” He laid his palms flat on his desk and looked at them as though he could see the blood of all the deaths from Kinloch Hold to Kirkwall that stained his gauntlets. “It is easy to believe you are right when standing at the head of an army. Someone once told me that there is good reason to fear someone who claims they have divine right behind them. He wasn’t wrong. I did everything Meredith asked of me, in the belief that I was serving my calling to the Maker and his bride. I saw how that false belief can lead to corruption, and yet I did nothing until it was far too late. I am as much of a monster as she became at the end.”

“If anyone is to blame for what happened, it is Knight-Commander Meredith and the apostate Anders, not you,” she corrected sharply. “And I have spoken to both the mages and the templars left here. They do not believe you are a monster.”

Cullen gave her a disbelieving look. It was easy now for him to recognise the fear when he saw it. That was a stain he could never clean from his soul. “I may not always have wielded the blade or the brand, but I was wilfully blind. I knew, deep down, that something was wrong. Every death or abuse lies on my head. What makes you believe I could ever help restore peace when people will justifiably see only the bloody fist of the Order in me?”

She shook her head. “You stood up for what was right when it mattered the most, Knight-Commander. And now, you are standing up for what the Order once meant, despite how the Chantry abandoned you. Whatever you have done in your past, trust me when I say that I believe you can do great things. I am offering you a chance to achieve that with the Inquisition.”

He felt the barriers faltering, but even then, he couldn’t allow himself to accept what she was saying. False hope had burned him far too often to fall so easily into the same trap.

“Forgive me if your words seem hollow. In the end, there is no choice for a templar,” he responded with building anger. “You are asking me to bind myself to the Divine’s army, or the Inquisition, or whatever you wish to call it, as I am bound to the Order. It might be a different name, but it would be the same outcome.”

That brought her short. She gave him a penetrating look as if she could see the lyrium flowing through his veins and weaving its fine chain links in an ever tightening grip about his heart.

“The Divine would never even consider withholding-”

“Lyrium is not my concern.” He waved away the worry, even as he felt a visceral fear at the idea of being dragged by those chains. Meredith had never needed to do it to him, but to others, certainly. “You'd force a new title on me, just as the one I hold now was, Seeker. What if I am tired of having others choose my path and demand blind faith of me? We remain slaves, repeating the same mistakes. You will change nothing.”

He folded his arms and scowled at her, indifferent to the likely consequences that would result from a templar disputing a seeker’s words.

Again, she seemed lost for words. “I apologise for the misunderstanding, I have never been known for my skills of diplomacy. Divine Justinia demands nothing. Today I am not a seeker or Right Hand of the Divine claiming the right of command over a templar.” She leaned forwards with a sincere look. “I am not ordering you to take this position. I ask as one equal to another. One loyal servant of the Maker to another. We need people who truly believe in what the Inquisition can do. We need someone to help us heal the rift between mage and templar. I believe you can help us achieve that dream.”

Cullen’s chair creaked as he leaned back, stunned. “Maker’s mercy. You’re letting me _choose_?”

The seeker nodded gravely, without a touch of mockery for his disbelief.

“I…” He stopped, bewilderment in his expression and every line of his posture. He spent a long moment in stunned silence. It was as if the Maker was offering a dream he had never dared to consider. _Did I walk into a demon whilst in Kirkwall?_ He found himself reflexively cataloguing the sights of the office, looking for the tiny discrepancies of a demon’s illusion. He half expected Desire to ooze out of the brickwork and for the familiar confines of the office to resolve themselves into the even more familiar walls of his prison. Yet everything was exactly as it should have been, right to the smallest detail, memorised with the crystalline clarity of a templar that made losing memories to lyrium all the more painful. This wasn’t Kinloch Hold and this was no vision. He exhaled and ran trembling fingers through his hair.

“I can hardly remember a time before my life belonged to the Chantry to do with as they pleased. I have been inextricably bound on the path dictated to me by my vows and…” He looked up blindly, as if the gentle glow of his lyrium vials — lined up with obsessive precision on his shelf — could penetrate through the floors above. “I have been faithful, I have served, and I have gone where the Chantry and the Order willed. A choice of my path in life is something I haven’t been given since I joined the Order half a lifetime ago.” He took a deep breath, “After Kinloch Hold, all I wanted to do was serve … even if there had been another option open to me, all I _could_ do was serve. I wanted to make up for my failure in the fall of the Circle, which ended in yet more disaster. And then the Order betrayed their calling, and I found myself bound to something in which I no longer believed.”

“You have a chance to make your own destiny now. Allow me to give back some of the freedom that the Chantry claimed from you.” She pushed herself up from the chair, giving the roll of parchment left on his desk a final tap. “I do not care where you have faltered, only that you stand here now. But this is not an order. The choice is yours.”

~~~~

Cullen almost retched as he drained his lyrium vial in the pre-dawn light of the next day. Beautiful agony as his body took what it needed and demanded more. These days, water had no attraction. It could never quench the thirst that itched at the back of his mind. It just wasn’t blue enough.

When he been given his first philter, so many years ago, they had called lyrium a gift to allow them to serve the Maker. On days like this, the ones that came more often, it felt more like a curse. He could swear he felt the chains tightening about him.

He spent the morning alternately pacing his office and dealing with the reports on his desk, waiting for the Seeker’s return. In truth, his mind had been made up almost as soon as she had left. It meant bending or outright breaking the vows he had made. It was not a decision to be taken lightly, but the optimism he felt on finalising the decision was better than lyrium. Every unwanted burden seemed suddenly meaningless. It was as if the Maker was offering him another chance to atone, only this time, he wasn’t being forced down a single path. He could choose. He could do something to fix a problems that he’d only been able to watch worsen until now. He had been given the right to follow his own desires, a concept lost along with his memories of a time before he had bound himself to the Order. It gave him a thrill of fear to even consider following his own desire, but perhaps, with no demon picking at his sanity, it was safe.

But the writ from the Divine remained unopened. The Seeker offered something he would never have dared dream he deserved, but he needed more than just a title to feel able to atone for the mistakes of the past. If she refused his demands… _Maker, let me keep this one hopeful dream._ Even knowing how hope had betrayed him before, he wanted this tiny scrap of faith.

Perhaps it was projecting his own feelings, but Seeker Pentaghast’s smile was expectant as she walked into his office. On seeing Cullen’s restlessness, she hesitated in the doorway.

“If you need more time-?” she began with unexpected hesitancy.

He forced himself to a standstill and pulled himself to attention. “I do not, Seeker Pentaghast.”

“Well?” she asked impatiently.

“The templars here. They would be provided for should they choose to remain in Kirkwall? We have been abandoned by the Chantry for far too long.”

She nodded in understanding. “I can see that it is done. And the monasteries in Val Royeaux remain open for those that can no longer serve.”

Cullen nodded in satisfaction. The times of hardship had not been kind to many of the templars left to the Gallows. A quarter of them served in name alone. Lovett had long since been taken off active service. These days, he still believed Cullen to be a Knight-Corporal, still offered advice for combat deficiencies that Cullen had long since corrected. The confusion as he registered the signs of rank in Cullen’s attire was painful. The sick horror as an old friend recognised what the discrepancy meant was worse. They needed the care had been denied them for too long.

“The Inquisition could do great things. It could provide help where it is needed most, in a way the Chantry or the Order cannot any more. It is a worthy cause that I don’t deserve to call my own. But before I answer, I have a condition.” He fixed an intense look on her. Whether she accepted the condition or not, he felt that she had to know how deep the desire ran.

She raised a hand expectantly with a wary look. “Which is?”

“If I do become commander of this force, it will not be as a Knight-Commander of the Templar Order,” he hauled in a fortifying breath, unable to believe he was actually saying the words. “I wish to resign my commission. There is nothing for me in the Order any more. It has lost its way.”

It was a condition he didn’t expect to be accepted. Where a templar served. When they retired. The schedule of their day. Permission to marry. Every aspect of their lives was governed by the Chantry or the Order. Most were never granted leave of more than a day at a time, for the obvious reason that lyrium kept them tied to their Circle or garrison. Even the paltry stipend was perfectly calculated to make it impossible to sustain oneself for any length of time outside of the Order. A life in service meant exactly what it said.

Cullen scanned the seeker’s face as all the worries of a sleepless night’s deliberations repeated themselves to him. Her eyebrows rose, but he didn’t see the perfunctory dismissal he had anticipated. Instead, she seemed thoughtful.

“There is no requirement that all who aid the Divine must be sworn servants of the Chantry,” she replied slowly. “It is unconventional — few choose to leave the Order entirely — but I believe the Divine would be willing. Lyrium is usually only provided for serving or retired knights of the Order, but I’m sure an exception can be made for a special case.”

He started shaking his head before she had even finished speaking. There was so many things he wished he could rectify, but there was one burning desire that rose above all the rest. Now he had to say the words, before the lurking thirst undermined his dream of freedom. “I no longer wish to take lyrium.”

Saying the words seemed like taking a step closer to the void, and yet he had never felt lighter. No more chains. No more destroying his mind piece by piece.

“You can’t be serious? You must recognise the consequences of that, Knight-Commander,” she stated incredulously. “Even an initiate would struggle to forsake lyrium entirely, and you’ve taken it for more than ten years. Maker above, according to your service record, you’ve been required to take a double ration for most of that time. You could kill yourself.”

“I never-” he bit off the rest of the angry denial. If he was to do this, he needed to be entirely honest. “I know what I’m asking. I am willing to accept,” - _I deserve to bear-_ “whatever consequences may arise from my actions. I will serve of my own free will, not because I am compelled.”

“It takes a brave man to ask such a thing.” She gave him a look that seemed to penetrate right through him. Finally, she nodded. “But if anyone has the willpower to see it through, I imagine it is you. In fact, this reinforces my belief that you are the right choice for this position. Your conditions are acceptable.”

All Cullen’s breath left him at once. He had to catch the desk beside him for support. He felt lighter than he had in over ten years. He’d been ready for a refusal, had expected to spend the rest of his life bound to the Gallows until he lost his mind to lyrium or his own weaknesses.

“Thank you, Seeker,” he breathed. “Then I would be honoured to serve as Commander and pray I can match whatever image you have of me.” He paused. “I know what happens with lyrium withdrawal. I’ve seen and experienced a little of what it can do to a person’s mind. As a Seeker, you are the only one I could trust to recognise the signs. Watch me. Should I seem to be losing my reason or my ability to command, you will have to replace me.”

“I have faith in your ability to see this through,” she replied with conviction. “I don’t expect that to be necessary.”

“I’m under no illusions that it will be easy, so forgive me if I am wary of unfounded optimism.” Cullen’s voice hardened. “Swear it, Seeker.”

She met his steely look. “I swear on Andraste’s pyre.”

Cullen nodded. No one should have to suffer for his poor decisions again. “Good.”

The Seeker extended a hand. Cullen clasped it.

“Welcome to the Divine’s forces, Commander Cullen.”

When she left, Cullen finally opened the scroll of parchment on his desk. He’d have believed it was a dream, but his dreams were past pains, not future hopes. There, inscribed on the paper, was his chance at redemption.

~~~~

The ride to Starkhaven was one that Cullen had never done before. With the exception of rare excursions to Kirkwall’s immediate environs, he’d barely even see the Free Marches. After ten years spent trapped in Kirkwall, it was impossible to believe how much light and air there was out here. Every mile further from the bloodstained city left him a little lighter, even knowing that he would soon return.

As a courtesy, Seeker Pentaghast had provided a few of her own men to provide Cullen an escort to the city. These days, a lone templar was a tempting target. Their arrival in the Templar garrison in Starkhaven was greeted with dismay. More than a few thought he had been brought to be paraded as an example to those templars who chose not to follow the Lord Seeker to war. It had taken more diplomacy than Cullen thought he held to convince them that he was on a personal visit to speak to their Knight-Captain.

Their Garrison was minuscule compare to the sheer size of the Gallows. Instead, he invited Rylen to the relative privacy of a nearby tavern. Back against the wall of the private booth they had been offered, it was easy to observe the cheer of a populace that hadn’t spent the last three years rebuilding after a catastrophe. Starkhaven taverns were nothing like Kirkwall ones. There were two kinds in Kirkwall; dives like the Hanged Man, and taverns for the elite of Hightown. This was somewhere in between. But the sheer fact of its distance from the City of Chains made it infinitely better than even the worst dive in Kirkwall.

Cullen nursed his light ale as Rylen dropped back into the seat opposite him, a mug clutched in each hand. He waved off Rylen’s vague attempt at a deferential salute and did his best to settle comfortably, as hard as the task was. After ten years in Kirkwall and his time in Kinloch Hold, half his mind still expected some crisis.

“I appreciate you making the time to join me, Rylen.”

“I could hardly resist finding out why you rode all the way to Starkhaven, with Seeker escorts, no less.” Rylen’s smile was replaced with a look of wary curiosity. “I know you, Knight-Commander. A man like you doesn’t make a social calls. And this isnae our barracks, so you don’t want anyone overhearing us.” He pushed his pair of mugs away and leaned forwards with a grave look on his face. “Whatever you need, I’m your templar.”

Cullen hefted his ale. “I can’t invite a friend for a drink?”

“Luckily this is a Starkhaven tavern and you’re not a Kirkwaller, so I’m willing to accept the invitation.” Rylen raised an eyebrow. “But I’ve never seen you drink anything other than water. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen you in three years.” He looked dour for a moment. Rylen had been observant enough to recognise the cold reserve of Cullen’s lyrium overuse and the minor withdrawal that followed. He took a sip from the first mug and settled more comfortable into his chair. “So?”

Cullen’s exhaled. “A Seeker force arrived in Kirkwall a little over a week ago. They were sent directly by the Divine to investigate events leading up to the mage-templar war.”

Rylen perked up. “They have to know it wasn’t your fault.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Cullen sighed. “Regardless. If the Divine’s conclave fails to resolve the war, they intend to resurrect the Inquisition to re-establish peace. I was offered the position of Commander. I’ve done as much as I can in Kirkwall. I accepted, on the condition that I be allowed to resign my commission with the Order. We leave in two weeks.”

“Maker. A new Inquisition?” Rylen leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “At least the Divine is taking the problem seriously. They couldn’t have chosen a better men for the position.”

“I was admittedly surprised,” he shook his head as he spoke. Surprised was an understatemet. He still couldn’t quite belive the offer, or the demands he had made of the seeker, “but there’s much that the Inquisition could do. Perhaps we stand a chance of resolving this war.”

“Maker grant it _can_ be resolved.” Rylen shook his head, “But leaving the Order entirely is quite a step. I’ve never seen a more dedicated templar”

“You’ve seen what our brother and sister templars are doing out there. Maker, what your own Knight-Commander did. We have fallen so far from what we should be. It was something I felt I had to do. There’s nothing more for me in the Order.” Cullen drummed his fingers irritably on the table in front of him. “Although outright resignation doesn’t seem to have been requested for a long time. They weren’t sure how to handle it. The resignation has been officially called retirement, and I will retain my knighthood.”

Rylen chuckled darkly. “The Chantry don’t want to lose face when a prominent Knight-Commander outright resigns? At least they hold the illusion that the rebels can be brought back under their control.”

Cullen sighed. “So it would appear. I would rather cut all ties. As far as I and Seeker Pentaghast are concerned, I have resigned my commission. It’s a first step.”

He laid a little stress on ‘all’. Retired templars received lyrium. He wanted to reject that unwelcome courtesy. But even knowing Rylen as well as he did, he held back from admitting that his break was far greater than simply renouncing a title. Perhaps later. Until then, it wasn’t important.

“So what happens now?” Rylen asked.

“Some of the templars remaining in the Gallows wish to join me, albeit without resigning from the Order.” _Not that we have ever been granted that freedom of choice in the past_ , he thought darkly. “Seeker Pentaghast has informed me that all templars’ needs will be provided for as they would be by the Order. Ser Rost will lead those who intend to stay in Kirkwall. The mages wish to attend the conclave. I suppose now I can afford to help them get there safely.” He shifted uneasily in his chair. “A few even offered to assist in the Divine’s force. Maker knows how that will work out, but the Seeker believes it will strengthen our influence with the rogue mages.”

Rylen looked pensive. “That leaves the Gallows almost empty.”

Cullen offered a weak smirk. “The death took three years, but the Gallows is no longer a Circle of Magi.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you’re mourning that.”

“I regret plenty of things in life, but not this decision. The Gallows will not be missed.”

Rylen raised a mug in a casual toast. “To a more cheerful future, then.”

Cullen raised his own mug and tapped it against Rylen’s. He set it down without drinking and clasped his hands. “One of my final orders as Knight-Commander will be to inform Ser Rost that the Gallows is to continue providing support to Kirkwall. Maker willing, they will stand by your side as loyal templars.” Cullen pushed his untouched ale to one side and gave Rylen an earnest look. “But you were an immense help in Kirkwall. I’d consider it an honour if you’d join me in Haven as my second in command. There is no obligation. This is an offer as a friend with faith in your abilities. As far as I am concerned, I am no longer your superior in the Order.”

Here was another reason to avoid admitting how thoroughly he planned on severing ties with the Order. He had no intention of forcing any templars — intentionally or otherwise — to endure what he would inevitably face. Every one he spoke to would have the same freedom of choice that he had been granted.

Rylen wrapped a hand around a mug and gazed into the depths, as if it held the answer he was looking for. “I didnae want to go haring off into the hills on some ‘Maker-given quest to bring apostates to justice’ and abandon my responsibility. Blasted zealots.” His disgust at his commanding officer’s decision dripped from the words. Rylen had admitted how hard it was to reject his engrained loyalty to lead a mutiny — if staying faithful to what was left of the Order could be called mutiny — but he had never regretted the decision. “You’re one of the few Knights-Commander who seems to have a good head on their shoulders.”

Cullen didn’t let his hopes rise yet. Rylen could be implying his own decision was another example of Carsten’s thinly-veiled hunger to exact retribution. “Meaning?”

“I wasnae sure there was much good us going out to the conclave. There will be enough voices there already. But we’re not much good to anyone sitting on our arses in sunny Starkhaven.” Rylen’s gaze grew distant. “Someone needs to try and end this war in a way that doesn’t involve murdering every mage they see. Seems like the Divine has a plan.”

Rylen paused in thought. Cullen let him be, as impatient as he was to hear an answer. He spared half a glance for the crowded tavern around them, letting the bright chatter envelop him. He had almost forgotten the bustle of a city that wasn’t still recovering. The war seemed like a more distant problem to this city. And in a devout city state like Starkhaven, no one disturbed a Knight-Captain and Knight-Commander. In Kirkwall, those who weren’t rightfully cautious were the people who wanted something from him. He had never sought out a place as the centre of attention. Anonymity and privacy were forgotten luxuries that he was happy to enjoy while they lasted.

Finally, Rylen drained his entire mug in one long go and pulled the next in front of him. “Very well. I can’t speak for my men, but I’ll join this mad scheme.”

A genuine smile flickered across Cullen’s face. “It will be a pleasure to serve together again.”

“Likewise. It will be an honour.”

“Will you join us immediately? I can understand if you might need time to prepare.”

Rylen’s face adopted the serious look of the compulsive planner. “We’ll have to. Some of my men will want to stay in the Free Marches.” He drummed his fingers on the table, drink forgotten. “A week’s march between Kirkwall and Starkhaven. Resupply. Provisions and lyrium. A ship…” His voice trailed off in thought.

Cullen ran his own predictions. “So I’ll expect you to arrive four weeks later, or thereabouts.”

Rylen nodded as he confirmed Cullen’s estimate. He smiled sharply. “Interesting times ahead, Knight-Comm-” he cut off and cocked his head. “I suppose I need to get used to a new title.”

Cullen quirked a smile of his own. “Just Commander, apparently. I imagine the new title will be more difficult to become accustomed to than it seems. In private, I think we’ve worked together long enough that there’s no need to stand on ceremony. The title of Knight-Commander is purely a formality now until I reach Haven.”

Rylen nodded. “To a new beginning, Cullen,” he said and raised his mug again.

This time, Cullen joined him in draining his mug. They both knew it wouldn’t address the real thirst, but it was a polite fiction. Maker willing, he would be able to shed those chains soon enough.

~~~~

One week later, Cullen removed his templar plate for what he prayed would be the final time. The gleaming armour stood emptily on its stand, robes folded tidily to one side. He brushed his fingertips gently over the Sword of Mercy on the breastplate. The sight of it didn’t evoke the pride it once had.

He pulled on simple hard wearing travel clothes, purchased in the Lowtown market. The merchant had given him a poorly-concealed odd look when he had seen the purchase, although even now, few dared question a templar, let alone a Knight-Commander. Provided for by the Chantry and with vows of poverty, templars were not known for material wealth, and they certainly didn’t spend what little they had on clothing they would rarely have cause to wear. He certainly couldn’t afford anything to the standard of templar plate and weaponry. Even those simple items had nearly drained his limited savings, but it was an important part of leaving his life as a templar behind in Kirkwall.

Cullen stepped hesitantly over to the bookshelf. His lyrium kit lay resting where he had left it the previous day, precisely aligned with the edge of the shelf. He ran a hand over the neatly aligned lyrium vials, listening to the muted tinkle of the glass as they moved. The beautiful blue called to him, but he ignored the hum. A privilege of rank, to have a ready supply of lyrium. Was it trust by the Chantry, or implicit encouragement to use more than they should? The leash of addiction was a stain on both the Order and the Chantry, whatever abilities and strength it might grant. But he would no longer be bound to that life.

Instead, when he had awoken this morning, he had knelt before the statue of Andraste in the chapel and made a new, more personal vow. It would not match the vow of service that he edged close to breaking by leaving the Order, but he felt it important. Today marked the first day without a crystalline blue draught accompanying its start. It had felt both unimaginably difficult and a blessed relief to break the routine of more than ten years.

Cullen stepped back from the bookshelf with a sigh and hefted his travel sack. The bare minimum of provisions and essentials. And one luxury he had allowed for himself: a small travel chess kit in the faint hope that it would provide a welcome distraction in the following weeks.

He grabbed a letter to his sister from the table. It was the longest letter he had written to her since receiving his knighthood. It might not make up for years of uncommunicative silence, but he had laid bare admissions he had shied away from acknowledging before. He was being as true to her as he was to himself. He thumbed the coin in his pocket and turned from the room to leave the Gallows for what he fervently hoped was the final time.

~~~~

He stood on the deck of a ship leaving Kirkwall. Going without the heavy plate he had worn for half his life felt odd. The pull of his sword at his hip was at least one comforting weight. And his mind was… quiet, calm. His first day in service to a new calling to the Maker and Andraste. The lyrium song would fade in time and bring with it the half-remembered pain of withdrawal. But this sense of relief, a new chance to serve, freedom from chains both imagined and real. Surely that would counterbalance the weeks, months, maybe even the lifetime of discomfort a lack of lyrium might bring. He could endure it. He would attempt to face his memories and his life clear of lyrium’s siren song.

The enclosed cabins of the ship might be more than he was willing to face, but the fading view was infinitely better than the crowding below deck anyway. Slowly but surely, the imposing towers of the Gallows were hidden behind the cliffs sheltering Kirkwall’s bay. Then, even the forbidding statues of the Twins — slaves bound in chains to watch over the entrance to Kirkwall’s bay for eternity — disappeared over the horizon.

With no one there to see it, not even the inquisitive Varric Tethras, the shadow of a smile twitched his lips into unfamiliar lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, we are done. This ended up being much much longer than I expected. For those of you that stuck with me all this way, thanks for reading! Thanks for the kudos, the comments (I got way more of both than I expected, so thanks!), or, even if you’ve left neither, just for reading! This was my first foray into the world of fic writing, so I'm sure there are plenty of places where improvements are needed. Regardless it’s been a fun ride in a part of the DA universe that not many people spend time in. Thanks for joining.


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